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^itec^tte button 









Oonnight, 1886, 1888, 1890, 

AU righU ruerved. 

» » • 


l%t Rivenidt Press, Cafnbridge, Mats.f U. S. A, 
KlMtro^Tped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton A Oompaaj. 



^Democraot ».«*7 

Garfibld 88 

STAm^sr 47 

FiEiiDiNa .••••••••• 51 


Books and Ltbbartkb 78 

wobdswobth 09 

Don Quixote 115 

Habvard Anniyebsaby 137 

Tabiff Reform 181 

Place of the Independent in Politics .... 190 
"OuB Litebaturb'' 222 

Index 229 

Copyright, 1886, 1888, 1890, 

AU rights reserved. 

• • • - 
• • • •• 

1%* Rivtnidt PresSf Cdmbridge, JUiiMt., U. S. A, 
Klcctro^Tped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton A Oompanj. 


^Demockaot e » . . • 7 

Gabfield 88 

STAm^sr 47 

FiEiiDiNa 51 


Books and Libra rtkb 78 

wobdswobth 09 

Don QuixoTB 115 

Habvard Anniversary 137 

Tariff Reform 181 

Place of the Independent in Politics .... 190 
"Our Literature" 222 

Index 229 




He must be a bom leader or misleader of men, 
or must have been sent into the world unfurnished 
with that modulating and restraining balance* wheel 
which we caU a sense of humor, who, in old age, 

the necessity of bringing the universe into conform- 
ity with them as he had in youth. In a world 
the very condition of whose being is that it should 
be in perpetual flux, where all seems mirage, and 
the one abiding thing is the effort to distinguish 
realities from appearances, the elderly man must 
be indeed of a singularly tough and valid fibre 
who is certain that he has any clarified residuum of 
experience, any assured verdict of reflection, that 
deserves to be called an opinion, or who, even if 
he had, feels that he is justified in holding man- 
kind by the button while he is expounding it. 
And in a world of daily — nay, almost hourly ^« 


journalism, where every clever man, every man 
who thinks himself clever, or whom anybody else 
thinks clever, is called upon to deliver his judg- 
ment point-blank and at the word of command 
on every conceivable subject of human thought, 
or, on what sometimes seems to him very much 
the same thing, on every inconceivable display 
of human want of thought, there is such a spend- 
thrift waste of all those commonplaces which fur- 
nish the permitted staple of public discourse that 
there is little chance of beguiling a new tune 
out of the one-stringed instrument on which we 
have been thrumming so long. In this desperate 
necessity one is often tempted to think that, if all 
the words of the dictionary were tumbled down in 
a heap and then all those fortuitous juxtapositions 
and combinations that made tolerable sense were 
picked out and pieced together, we might find 
among them some poignant suggestions towards 
novelty of thought or expression. But, alas ! it 
is only the great poets who seem to have this un- 
solicited profusion of unexpected and incalculable 
phra^, this infinite variety of topic. For every- 
body else everything has been said before, and said 
over again after. He who has read his Aristotle 
will be apt to think that observation has on most 
points of general applicability said its last word, 
and he who has mounted the tower of Plato to look 
abroad from it will never hope to climb another 
with so lofty a vantage of speculation. Where it 
is so simple if not so easy a thing to hold one's 
peace, why add to the general confusion of tongues ? 


There Is sometliing disheartening, too, in being ex« 
peeted to fill up not less than a certain measure of 
time, as if the mind were an hour-glass, that need 
only be shaken and set on one end or the other, as 
the case may be, to run its allotted sixty minutes 
with decorous exactitude. I recollect being once 
told by the late eminent naturalist, Agassiz, that 
when he was to deliver his first lecture as professor 
(at Ziirich, I believe) he had grave doubts of his 
ability to occupy the prescribed three quarters of 
an hour. He was speaking without notes, and 
glancing anxiously from time to time at the watch 
that lay before him on the desk. '' When I had 
spoken a half hour," he said, '^ I had told them 
everything I knew in the world, everything I Then 
I began to repeat myself," he added, roguishly, 
^^ and I have done nothing else ever since." Be- 
neath the humorous exaggeration of the story I 
seemed to see the face of a very serious and im- 
proving moral. And yet if one were to say only 
what he had to say and then stopped, his audience 
woidd feel defrauded of their honest measure. Let 
us take courage by the example of the French, 
whose exportation of Bordeaux wines increases as 
the area of their land in vineyards is diminished. 

To me, somewhat hopelessly revolving these 
things, the undelayable year has rolled round, and 
I find myself called upon to say something in this 
place, where so many wiser men have spoken before 
me. Precluded, in my quality of national guest, 
by motives of taste and discretion, from dealing 
with any question of immediate and domestic con- 


cem, it seemed to me wisest, of at any rate most 
prudent, to choose a topic of comparatively abstract 
interest, and to ask your indulgence for a few some- 
what generalized remarks on a matter concerning 
which I had some experimental knowledge, derived 
from the use of such eyes and ears as Nature had 
been pleased to endow me withal, and such re- 
port as I had been able to win from them. The 
subject which most readily suggested itself was 
the spirit and the working of those conceptions of 
life and polity which are lumped together, whether 
for reproach or commendation, under the name of 
Democracy. By temperament and education of a 
conservative turn, I saw the last years of that 
quaint Arcadia which French travellers saw with 
delighted amazement a century ago, and have 
watched the change (to me a sad one) from an 
agricultural to a proletary population. The testi- 
mony of Balaam should carry some conviction. I 
have grown to manhood and am now growing old 
with the growth of this system of government in 
my native land, have watched its advances, or what 
some woidd call its encroachments, gradual and 
irresistible as those of a glacier, have been an ear- 
witness to the forebodings of wise and good and 
timid men, and have Uved to see those forebodings 
belied by the course of events, which is apt to show 
itself humorously careless of the reputation of 
prophets. I recollect hearing a sagacious old gen- 
tleman say in 1840 that the doing away with the 
property qualification for suffrage twenty years 
before had been the ruin of the State of Massa- 


chusetts ; that it had put public credit and private 
estate alike at the mercy of demagogues. I lived 
to see that Commonwealth twenty odd years later 
paying the interest on her bonds in gold, though it 
cost her sometimes nearly three for one to keep 
her faith, and that while suffering an unparalleled 
drain of men and treasure in helping to sustain the 
unity and self-respect of the nation. 

If universal suffrage has worked ill in our larger 
cities, as it certainly has, this has been mainly be- 
cause the hands that wielded it were untrained to 
its use. There the election of a majority of the 
trustees of the public money is controlled by the 
most ignorant and vicious of a population which 
has come to us from abroad, wholly unpractised in 
self-government and incapable of assimilation by 
American habits and methods. But the finances 
of our towns, where the native tradition is still 
dominant and whose affairs are discussed and set- 
tled in a public assembly of the people, have been 
in general honestly and prudently administered. 
Even in manufaxjturing towns, where a majority of 
the voters live by their daily wages, it is not so 
often the recklessness as the moderation of public 
expenditure that surprises an old-fashioned ob- 
server. " The beggar is in the saddle at last," cries 
Proverbial Wisdom. "Why, in the name of all 
former experience, does n't he ride to the Devil ? " 
Because in the very act of mounting he ceased to 
be a beggar and became part owner of the piece of 
property he bestrides. The last thing we need be 
anldous about is property. It always has friends 


or the means of making them. If riches have wings 
to fly away from their owner, they have wings also 
to escape danger. 

I hear America sometimes playfully accused of 
sending you all your storms, and am in the habit 
of parrying the charge by alleging that we are en- 
abled to do this because, in virtue of our protective 
system, we can afford to make better bad weather 
than anybody else. And what wiser use could we 
make of it than to export it in return for the pau- 
pers which some European countries are good 
enough to send over to us who have not attained 
to the same skill in the manufacture of them? 
But bad weather is not the worst thing that is laid 
at our door. A French gentleman, not long ago, 
forgetting Burke's monition of how unwise it is to 
draw an indictment against a whole people, has 
charged us with the responsibility of whatever he 
finds disagreeable in the morals or manners of his 
countrymen. If M. Zola or some other competent 
witness would only go into the box and tell us what 
those morals and manners were before our example 
corrupted them ! But I confess that I find little 
to interest and less to edify me in these interna- 
tional bandyings^ of " You 're another." 

I shall address myself to a single point only in 
the long list of offences of which we are more or 
less gravely accused, because that really includes 
all the rest. It is that we are infecting the Old 
World with what seems to be thought the entirely 
new disease of Democracy. It is generally people 
who are in what are called easy circumstances who 



can afford the leisure to treat themselves to a hand- 
some complaint, and these experience an immedi- 
ate alleviation when once they have found a sono- 
rous Greek name to abuse it by. There is some- 
thing consolatory also, something flattering to their 
sense of personal dignity, and to that conceit of 
singularity which is the natural recoil from our un- 
easy consciousness of being commonplace, in think- 
ing ourselves victims of a malady by which no one 
had ever suffered before. Accordingly they find it 
simpler to class under one comprehensive heading 
whatever they find offensive to their nerves, their 
tastes, their interests, or what they suppose to be 
their opinions, and christen it Democracy, much as 
physicians label every obscure disease gout, or as 
cross-grained fellows lay their ill-temper to the 
weather. But is it really a new ailment, and, if it 
be, is America answerable for it? Even if she 
were, would it account for the phylloxera, and 
hoof-and-mouth disease, and bad harvests, and bad 
English, and the German bands, and the Boers, 
and all the other discomforts with which these 
later days have vexed the souls of them that go in 
chariots? Yet I have seen the evil example of 
Democracy in America cited as the source and ori- 
gin of things quite as heterogeneous and quite as 
little connected with it by any sequence of cause 
and effect. Surely this ferment is nothing new. It 
has been at work for centuries, and we are more 
conscious of it only because in this age of publicity, 
where the newspapers offer a rostrum to whoever 
has a grievance, or fancies that he has, the bubbles 


and scum thrown up by it are more noticeable on 
the surface than in those dumb ages when there 
was a cover of silence and suppression on the caul- 
dron. Bernardo Navagero, speaking of the Prov- 
inces of Lower Austria in 1546, tells us that " in 
them there are five sorts of persons, Clergy, Bar- 
ons, Nobles, Burghers, and Peasants. Of these last 
no account is made, hecause they have no voice in 
the Diet:' ^ 

Nor was it among the people that subversive or 
mistaken doctrines had their rise. A Father of the 
Church said that property was theft many centu- 
ries before Proudhon was born. Bourdaloue re- 
affirmed it. Montesquieu was the inventor of na- 
tional workshops, and of the theory that the State 
owed every man a living. Nay, was not the Church 
herself the first organized Democracy? A few 
centuries ago the chief end of man was to keep 
his soul alive, and then the little kernel of leaven 
that sets the gases at work was religious, and pro- 
duced the Beformation. Even in that, far-sighted 
persons like the Emperor Charles V. saw the germ 
of political and social revolution. Now that the 
chief end of man seems to have become the keep- 
ing of the body alive, and as comfortably alive as 

^ Below the Peasants, it shonld be remembered, was still an- 
other even more helpless class, the servile farm-laborers. The 
same witness informs us that of the extraordinary imposts the 
Peasants paid nearly twice as mnch in proportion to their esti' 
mated property as the Barons, Nobles, and Burghers together. 
Moreover, the upper classes were assessed at their own valuation, 
while they arbitrarily fixed that of the Peasants, who had no 
voice. (Rdazioni degli Amhasciatori Veneti, Serie I., tomo i., pp. 
378, 379, 389.) 


possible, the leaven also has become wholly politi- 
cal and social. But there had also been social up- 
heavals before the Keformation and contempora- 
neously with it, especially among men of Teutonic 
race. The Keformation gave outlet and direction 
to an unrest already existing. Formerly the im- 
mense majority of men — our brother? — knew 
only their sufferings, their wants, and their desires. 
They are beginning now to know their opportunity 
and their power. All persons who see deeper than 
their plates are rather inclined to thank God for it 
than to bewail it, for the sores of Lazarus have a 
poison in them against which Dives has no anti- 

There can be no doubt that the spectacle of a 
gi*eat and prosperous Democracy on the other side 
of the Atlantic must react powerfully on the aspi- 
rations and political theories of men in the Old 
World who do not find things to their mind ; but, 
whether for good or evil, it should not be over- 
looked that the acorn from which it sprang was 
ripened on the British oak. Every successive 
swarm that has gone out from this officina gentium 
has, when left to its own instincts — may I not 
call them hereditary instincts ? — assiuned a more 
or less thoroughly democratic form. This would 
seem to show, what I believe to be the fact, that 
the British Constitution, under whatever disguises 
of prudence or decorum, is essentially democratic. 
England, indeed, may be called a monarchy with 
democratic tendencies, the United States a demo- 
cracy with conservative instincts. People are con- 


tinually saying that America is in the air, and I 
ain glad to think it is, since this means only that a 
clearer conception of human claims and human du- 
ties is beginning to be prevalent. The discontent 
with the existing order of things, however, pervaded 
the atmosphere wherever the conditions were favor- 
able, long before Columbus, seeking the back door 
of Asia, found himself knocking at the front door 
of America. I say wherever the conditions were 
favorable, for it is certain that the germs of disease 
do not stick or find a prosperous field for their de- 
velopment and noxious activity unless where the 
simplest sanitary precautions have been neglected. 
*' For this effect defective comes by cause," as 
Polonius said long ago. It is only by instigation 
of the wrongs of men that what are called the 
Bights of Man become turbulent and dangerous. 
It is then only that they syllogize unwelcome truths. 
It is not the insurrections of ignorance that are 
dangerous, but the revolts of intelligence : — 

'' The wicked and the weak rebel in yain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion." 

Had the governing classes in France during the 
last century paid as much heed to their proper 
business as to their pleasures or manners, the guil- 
lotine need never have severed that spinal marrow 
of orderly and secular tradition through which in 
a normally constituted state the brain sympathizes 
with the extremities and sends will and impulsion 
thither. It is only when the reasonable and prac- 
ticable are denied that men demand the unreason- 
able and impracticable ; only when the possible is 


inade difficult that they fancy the impossible to be 
easy. Fairy tales are made out of the dreams of 
the poor. No ; the sentiment which lies at the 
root of democracy is nothing new. I am speaking 
always of a sentiment, a spirit, and not of a form of 
government ; for this was but the outgrowth of the 
other and not its cause. This sentiment is merely 
an expression of the natural wish of people to have 
a hand, if need be a controUing hand, in the man- 
agement of their own affairs. What is new is 
that they are more and more gaining that control, 
and learning more and more how to be worthy of 
it. What we used to call the tendency or drift — 
what we are being taught to call more wisely the 
evolution of things — has for some time been set- 
ting steadily in this direction. There is no good 
in arguing with the inevitable. The only argu- 
ment available with an east wind is to put on your 
overcoat. And in this case, also, the prudent will 
prepare themselves to encounter what they cannot 
prevent. Some people advise us to put on the 
brakes, as if the movement of which we are con- 
scious were that of a railway train running down 
an incline. But a metaphor is no argument, though 
it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home 
and imbed it in the memoiy. Our disquiet comes 
of what nurses and other experienced persons call 
growing-pains, and need not seriously alarm us. 
They are what every generation before us — cer- 
tainly every generation since the invention of print- 
ing — has gone through with more or less good for- 
tune. To the door of every generation there comes 



,^a knocking, and unless the household, like the 
^i^'^ Thane of Cawdor and his wife, have been doing 
some deed without a name, they need not shudder. 
It turns out at worst to be a poor relation who 
wishes to come in out of the cold. The porter 
always grumbles and is slow to open. " Who 's 
there, in the name of Beelzebub ? " he mutters. 
Not a change for the better in our human house- 
keeping has ever taken place that wise and good 
men have not opposed it, — have not prophesied 
with the alderman that the world would wake up 
to find its throat cut in consequence of it. The 
world, on the contrary, wakes up, rubs its eyes, 
yawns, stretches itself, and goes about its business 
as if nothing had happened. Suppression of the 
slave trade, abolition of slavery, trade unions, — at 
all of these excellent people shook their heads de- 
spondingly, and murmured " Ichabod." But the 
trade unions are now debating instead of conspir- 
ing, and we all read their discussions with com- 
fort and hope, sure that they are learning the 
business of citizenship and the difficulties of prac- 
tical legislation. 

One of the most curious of these frenzies of ex- 
clusion was that against the emancipation of the 
Jews. All share in the government of the world 
was denied for centuries to perhaps the ablest, cer- 
tainly the most tenacious, race that had ever lived 
in it — the race to whom we owed our religion and 
the purest spiritual stimulus and consolation to be 
found in all literature — a race in which ability 
seems as natural and hereditary as the curve of 


their noses, and whose blood, furtively mingling 
with the bluest bloods in Europe, has quickened 
them with its own indomitable impulsion. We 
drove them into a comer, but they had their re- 
venge, as the wronged are always sure to have it 
sooner or later. They made their corner the coun- 
ter and banking-house of the world, and thence 
they rule it and us with the ignobler sceptre of 
finance. Your grandfathers mobbed Priestley only 
that you might set up his statue and make Bir- 
mingham the headquarters of English Unitarianism. 
We hear it said sometimes that this is an age of 
transition, as if that made matters clearer ; but^can 
any one point us to an age that was not ? If he 
could, he woidd show us an age of stagnation. The 
question for us, as it has been for all before us, is 
to make the transition gradual and easy, to see that 
our points are right so that the train may not come 
to grief. For we should remember that nothing is 
more natural for people whose education has been 
neglected than to spell evolution with an initial 
" r." A great man struggling with the storms of 
fate has been called a sublime spectacle ; but surely 
a great man wrestling with these new forces that 
have come into the world, mastering them and con- 
trolling them to beneficent ends, would be a yet sub- 
limer. Here is not a dauger, and if there were it 
would be only a better school of manhood, a nobler 
scope for ambition. I have hinted that what peo- 
ple are afraid of in democracy is less the thing it- 
self than what they conceive to be its necessary 
adjuncts and consequences. It is supposed to re- 


duce all mankind to a dead level of mediocrity in 
character and culture, to vulgarize men's concep- 
tions of life, and therefore their code of morals, 
manners, and conduct — to endanger the rights of 
property and possession. But I believe that the 
real gravamen of the charges lies in the habit it 
has of making itself generally disagreeable by ask- 
ing the Powers that Be at the most inconvenient 
moment whether they are the powers that ought to 
be. If the powers that be are in a condition to 
give a satisfactory answer to this inevitable ques- 
tion, they need feel in no way discomfited by it. 

5ew people take the trouble of trying to find out 
what democracy really is. Yet this would be a 
great help, for it is our lawless and imcertain 
thoughts, it is the indefiniteness of our impressions, 
that fill darkness, whether mental or physical, with 
spectres and hobgoblins. Democracy is nothing 
more than an experiment in government, more 
likely to succeed in a new soil, but likely to be tried 
in all soils, which must stand or fall on its own 
merits as others have done before it. For there is 
no trick of perpetual motion in politics any more 
than in mechanics. President Lincoln defined 
democracy to be " the government of the people by 
the people for the people." This is a sufficiently 
compact statement of it as a political arrangement. 
Theodore Parker said that " Democracy meant not 
' I 'm as good as you are,' but ' You 're as good as I 
am.' " And this is the ethical conception of it, 
necessary as a complement of the other ; a concep- 
tion which, could it be made actual and practical, 


would easily solve all the riddles that the old 
sphinx of political and social economy who sits by 
the roadside has been proposing to mankind from 
the beginning, and which mankind have shown such 
a singidar talent for answering wrongly. In this 
sense Christ was the first true democrat that ever 
breathed, as the old dramatist Dekker said he was 
the first true gentleman. The characters may be 
easily doubled, so strong is the likeness between 
them. A beautiful and profound parable of the 
Persian poet Jellaladeen tells us that ^^ One knocked 
at the Beloved's door, and a voice asked from 
within ' Who is there ? ' and he answered ' It is I.' 
Then the voice said, ^ This house will not hold me 
and thee ; ' and the door was not opened. Then 
went the lover into the desert and fasted and prayed 
in solitude, and after a year he returned and 
knocked again at the door; and again the voice 
asked ' Who is there ? ' and he said ' It is thyself ; ' 
and the door was opened to him." But that is 
idealism, you will say, and this is an only too prac- 
tical world. I grant it ; but I am one of those who 
believe that the real will never find an irremova- 
ble basis till it rests on the ideal. It used to be 
thought that a democracy was possible only in a 
small territory, and this is doubtless true of a de- 
mocracy strictly defined, for in such all the citizens 
decide directly upon every question of public con- 
cern in a general assembly. An example still sur- 
vives in the tiny Swiss canton of Appenzell. But 
this immediate intervention of the people in their 
own affairs is not of the essence of democracy ; it 


is not necessary, nor indeed, in most cases, practi- 
cable. Democracies to which Mr. Lincoln's defini- 
tion would fairly enough apply have existed, and 
now exist, in which, though the supreme authority 
reside in the people, yet they can act only indi- 
rectly on the national policy. This generation has 
seen a democracy with an imperial figurehead, and 
in all that have ever existed the body politic has 
never embraced all the inhabitants included within 
its territory, the right to share in the direction of 
affairs has been confined to citizens, and citizen- 
ship has been further restricted by various limita- 
tions, sometimes of property, sometimes of nativity, 
( and always of age and sex. 

The framers of the American Constitution were 
far from wishing or intending to found a democracy 
in the strict sense of the word, though, as was in- 
evitable, every expansion of the scheme of govern- 
ment they elaborated has been in a democratical 
direction. But this has been generally the slow 
result of growth, and not the sudden innovation of 
theory ; in fact, they had a profound disbelief in 
theory, and knew better than to commit the folly 
of breaking with the past. They were not seduced 
by the French fallacy that a new system of govern- 
ment could be ordered like a new suit of clothes. 
They would as soon have thought of ordering a 
new suit of flesh and skin. It is only on the roar- 
ing loom of time that the stuff is woven for such 
a vesture of their thought and experience as they 
were meditating. They recognized fully the value 
of tradition and habit as the great allies of perma- 


nenoe and stability. They all had that distaste for 
innovation which belonged to their race, and many 
of them a distrust of human nature derived from 
their creed. The day of sentiment was over, and 
no dithyrambic affirmations or fine-drawn analyses 
of the Rights of Man would serve their present 
turn. This was a practical question, and they ad- 
dressed themselves to it as men of knowledge and 
judgment should. Their problem was how to adapt 
English principles and precedents to the new con- 
ditions of American life, and they solved it with 
singular discretion. They put as many obstacles 
as they could contrive, not in the way of the peo- 
ple's will, but of their whim. With few exceptions 
they probably admitted the logic of the then ac- 
cepted syllogism, — democracy, anarchy, despotism. 
But this formula was framed upon the experience 
of small cities shut up to stew within their narrow 
walls, where the number of citizens made but an 
inconsiderable fraction of the inhabitants, where 
every passion was reverberated from house to 
house and from man to man with gathering rumor 
till every impulse became gregarious and therefore 
inconsiderate, and every popular assembly needed 
but an infusion of eloquent sophistry to turn it 
into a mob, all the more dangerous because sancti- 
fied with the formality of law.^ 

Fortunately their case was wholly different. 

^ The efiPect of the electric telegraph in reproducing this troop- 
ing of emotion and perhaps of opinion is yet to be measured. The 
efiPect of Darwinism as a disintegrator of hnmanitarianism is also 
to be reckoned with. 


They were to legislate for a widely scattered popu- 
lation and for States already practised in the dis- 
cipline of a partial independence. They had an 
unequalled opportunity and enormous advantages. 
The material they had to work upon was already 
democratical by instinct and habitude. It was 
tempered to their hands by more than a century's 
schooling in self-government. They had but to 
give permanent and conservative form to a ductile 
mass. In giving impulse and direction to their 
new institutions, especially in supplying them with 
checks and balances, they had a great help and 
safeguard in their federal organization. The dif- 
ferent, sometimes conflicting, interests and social 
systems of the several States made existence as a 
Union and coalescence into a nation conditional on 
a constant practice of moderation and compromise. 
The very elements of disintegration were the best 
guides in political training. Their children learned 
the lesson of compromise only too well, and it was 
the application of it to a question of fundamental 
morals that cost us our civil war. We learned 
once for all that compromise makes a good um- 
brella but a poor roof ; that it is a temporary ex- 
pedient, often wise in party politics, almost sure to 
be unwise in statesmanship. 

Has not the trial of democracy in America 
proved, on the whole, successful? If it had not, 
would the Old World be vexed with any fears 
of its proving contagious ? This trial would have 
been less severe could it have been made with a 
people homogeneous in race, language, and tradi- 


tions, whereas the United States have been called 
on to absorb and assimilate enormous masses of 
foreign population, heterogeneous in all these re- 
spects, and drawn mainly from that class which 
might fairly say that the world was not their 
friend, nor the world's law. The previous condition 
too often justified the traditional Irishman, who, 
landing i;i New York and asked what his politics 
were, inquired if there was a Government there, 
and on being told that there was, retorted, " Thin 
I 'm agin it I " We have taken from Europe the 
poorest, the most ignorant, the most turbulent of 
her people, and have made them over into good 
citizens, who have added to our wealth, and who 
are ready to die in defence of a country and of in- 
stitutions which they know to be worth dying for. 
The exceptions have been (and they are lamenta- 
ble exceptions) where these hordes of ignorance 
and poverty have coagulated in great cities. But 
the social system is yet to seek which has not to 
look the same terrible wolf in the eyes. On the 
other hand, at this very moment Irish peasants are 
buying up the worn-out farms of Massachusetts, 
and making them productive again by the same 
virtues of industry and thrift that once made them 
profitable to the English ancestors of the men who 
are deserting them. To have achieved even these 
prosaic results (if you choose to call them so), and 
that out of materials the most discordant, — I 
might say the most recalcitrant, — argues a certain 
beneficent virtue in the system that could do it, 
and is not to be accounted for by mere luck. Caiw 


lyle said scornfully that America meant only roast 
turkey every day for everybody. He forgot that 
States, as Bacon said of wars, go on their bellies. 
As for the security of property, it should be toler- 
ably well secured in a country where every other 
man hopes to be rich, even though the only prop- 
erty qualification be the ownership of two hands 
that add to the general wealth. Is it not the best 
security for anything to interest the largest pos- 
sible number of persons in its preservation and 
the smallest in its division ? In point of fact, far- 
seeing men count the increasing power of wealth 
and its combinations as one of the chief dangers 
with which the institutions of the United States 
are threatened in the not distant future. The 
right of individual property is no doubt the very 
corner-stone of civilization as hitherto understood, 
but I am a little impatient of being told that prop- 
erty is entitled to exceptional consideration because 
it bears all the burdens of the State. It bears 
those, indeed, which can most easily be borne, but 
poverty pays with its person the chief expenses of 
war, pestilence, and famine. Wealth should not 
forget this, for poverty is beginning to think of it 
now and then. Let me not be misunderstood. I 
see as clearly as any man possibly can, and rate 
as highly, the value of wealth, and of hereditary 
wealth, as the security of refinement, the feeder of 
all those arts that ennoble and beautify life, and as 
making a coimtry worth living in. Many an an- 
cestral hall here in England has been a nursery of 
that culture which has been of example and benefit 


to all. Old gold has a civilizing virtue whicli new 
gold must grow old to be capable of secreting. 

I should not think of coming before you to de- 
fend or to criticise any form of government. All 
have their virtues, all their defects, aiid all have 
illustrated one period or another in the history of 
the race, with signal services ta humanity and cul- 
ture. There is not one that could stand a cynical 
cross-examination by an experienced criminal law- 
yer, except that of a perfectly wise and perfectly 
good despot, such as the world has never seen, ex- 
cept in that white-haired king of Browning's, who 

** Lived long ago 
In the morning of the world, 
When Earth was nearer Heaven than now/' 

The English race, if they did not invent govern- 
ment by discussion, have at least carried it nearest 
to perfection in practice. It seems a very safe and 
reasonable contrivance for occupying the attention 
of the country, and is certainly a better way of set- 
tling questions than by push of pike. Yet, if one 
should ask it why it should not rather be called 
government by gabble, it would have to fumble in 
its pocket a good while before it found the change 
for a convincing reply. As matters stand, too, it 
is beginning to be doubtful whether Parliament 
and Congress sit at Westminster and Washington 
or in the editors' rooms of the leading journals, so 
thoroughly is everything debated before the author- 
ized and responsible debaters get on their legs. 
And what shall we say of government by a major- 
ity of voices ? To a person who in the last century 


would have called himself an Tmpartial Observer, 
a numerical preponderance seems, on the whole, as 
clumsy a way of arriving at truth as could well be 
devised, but experience has apparently shown it 
to be a convenient arraiigement for determining 
what may be expedient or advisable or practicable 
at any given moment. Truth, after all, wears a 
different face to everybody, and it would be too 
tedious to wait till all were agreed. She is said to 
lie at the bottom of a well, for the very reason, 
perhaps, that whoever looks down in search of her 
sees his own image at the bottom, and is persuaded 
not only that he has seen the goddess, but that she 
is far better-looking than he had imagined. 

The arguments against universal suffrage are 
equally unanswerable. "What," we exclaim, 
" shall Tom, Dick, and Harry have as much weight 
in the scale as I ? " Of course, nothing could be 
more absurd. And yet universal suffrage has not 
been the instrument of greater unwisdom than con- 
trivances of a more select description. Assemblies 
could be mentioned composed entirely of Masters 
of Arts and Doctors in Divinity which have some- 
times shown traces of human passion or prejudice 
in their votes. Have the Serene Highnesses and 
Enlightened Classes carried on the business of 
Mankind so well, then, that there is no use in try- 
ing a less costly method ? The democratic theory 
is that those Constitutions are likely to prove stead- 
iest which have the broadest base, that the right to 
vote makes a safety-valve of every voter, and that 
the best way of teaching a man how to vote is to 


give him the chance of practice. For the question 
is no longer the academic one, " Is it wise to give 
every man the ballot ? " but rather the practical 
one, " Is it prudent to deprive whole classes of it 
any longer ? " It may be conjectured that it is 
cheaper in the long run to lift men up than to hold 
them down, and that the ballot in their hands is 
less dangerous to society than a sense of wrong in 
their heads. At any rate this is the dilemma to 
which the drift of opinion has been for some time 
sweeping us, and in politics a dilemma is a more 
unmanageable thing to hold by the horns than a 
wolf by the ears. It is said that the right of suf- 
frage is not valued when it is indiscriminately be- 
stowed, and there may be some truth in this, for I 
have observed that what men prize most is a privi- 
lege, even if it be that of chief mourner at a funeral. 
But is there not danger that it will be valued at 
more than its worth if denied, and that some ille- 
gitimate way will be sought to make up for the 
want of it ? Men who have a voice in public affairs 
are at once affiliated with one or other of the great 
parties between which society is divided, merge 
their individual hopes and opinions in its safer, be- 
cause more generalized, hopes and opinions, are 
disciplined by its tactics, and acquire, to a certain 
degree, the orderly qualities of an army. They no 
longer belong to a class, but to a body corporate. 
Of one thing, at least, we may be certain, that, un- 
der whatever method of helping things to go wrong 
man's wit can contrive, those who have the divine 
right to govern will be found to govern in the end, 


and that the highest privilege to which the major- 
ity of mankind can aspire is that of being governed 
by those wiser than they. Universal suffrage has 
in the United States sometimes been made the in- 
strument of inconsiderate changes, under the no- 
tion of reform, and this from a misconception of 
the true meaning of popular government. One of 
these has been the substitution in many of the 
States of popular election for official selection in 
the choice of judges. The same system applied to 
military officers was the source of much evil dur- 
ing our civil war, and, I believe, had to be aban- 
doned. But it has been also true that on all great 
questions of national policy a reserve of prudence 
and discretion has been brought out at the crit- 
ical moment to turn the scale in favor of a wiser 
decision. An appeal to the reason of the people 
has never been known to fail in the long run. It 
is, perhaps, true that, by effacing the principle of 
passive obedience, democracy, ill understood, has 
slackened the spring of that ductility to discipline 
which is essential to " the unity and married calm 
of States." But I feel assured that experience and 
necessity will cure this evil, as they have shown 
their power to cure others. And under what frame 
of policy have evils ever been remedied till they 
became intolerable, and shook men out of their 
indolent indifference through their fears ? 

We are told that the inevitable result of de- 
mocracy is to sap the foundations of personal in- 
dependence, to weaken the principle of authority, 
to lessen the respect due to eminence, whether in 


station, virtue, or genius. If these things were so, 
society could not hold together. Perhaps the best 
forcing-house of robust individuality woidd be 
where public opinion is inclined to be most over- 
bearing, as he must be of heroic temper who should 
walk along Piccadilly at the height of the season 
in a soft hat. As for authority, it is one of the 
symptoms of the time that the religious reverence 
for it is declining everjnwrhere, but this is due partly 
to the fact that state-craft is no longer looked upon 
as a mystery, but as a business, and partly to the 
decay of superstition, by which I mean the habit 
of respecting what we ai*e told to respect rather 
than what is respectable in itself. There is more 
rough and tumble in the American democracy than 
is altogether agreeable to people of sensitive nerves 
and refined habits, and the people take their politi- 
cal duties lightly and laughingly, as is, perhaps, 
neither unnatural nor unbecoming in a young 
giant. Democracies can no more jump away from 
their own shadows than the rest of us can. They 
no doubt sometimes make mistakes and pay honor 
to men who do not deserve it. But they do this 
because they believe them worthy of it, and though 
it be true that the idol is the measure of the wor- 
shipper, yet the worship has in it the germ of a no- 
bler religion. But is it democracies alone that fall 
into these errors ? I, who have seen it proposed 
to erect a statue to Hudson, the railway king, and 
have heard Louis Napoleon hailed as the saviour 
of society by men who certainly had no democratic 
associations or leanings, am not ready to think so. 


But democracies have likewise their finer instincts. 
I have also seen the wisest statesman and most 
pregnant speaker of our generation, a man of hum- 
ble birth and ungainly manners, of little culture 
beyond what his own genius supplied, become more 
absolute in power than any monarch of modem 
times through the reverence of his countrymen for 
his honesty, his wisdom, his sincerity, his faith in 
God and man, and the nobly humane simplicity of 
his character. And I remember another whom 
popular respect enveloped as with a halo, the least 
vulgar of men, the most austerely genial, and the 
most independent of opinion. Wherever he went 
he never met a stranger, but everywhere neighbors 
and friends proud of him as their ornament and 
decoration. Institutions which could bear and 
breed such men as Lincoln and Emerson had 
surely some energy for good. No, amid all the 
fruitless turmoil and miscarriage of the world, if 
there be one thing steadfast and of favorable omen, 
one thing to make optimism distrust its own ob- 
scure distrust, it is the rooted instinct in men to 
admire what is better and more beautiful than 
themselves. The touchstone of political and social 
institutions is their ability to supply them with 
worthy objects of this sentiment, which is the very 
tap-root of civilization and progress. There would 
seem to be no readier way of feeding it with the 
elements of growth and vigor than such an organ- 
ization of society as will enable men to respect 
themselves, and so to justify them in respecting 


Such a result is quite possible under other con- 
ditions than those of an avowedly democratical 
Constitution. For I take it that the real essence 
of democracy was fairly enough defined by the 
First Napoleon when he said that the French 
Revolution meant ^^la carri^re ouverte aux ta- 
lents " — a clear pathway for merit of whatever 
kind. I should be inclined to paraphrase this by 
calling democracy that form of society, no matter 
what its political classification, in which every man 
had a chance and knew that he had it. If a man 
can climb, and feels hhnself encouraged to climb, 
from a coalpit to the highest position for which he 
is fitted, he can well afford to be indifferent what 
name is given to the government under which he 
lives. The Bailli of Mirabeau, imcle of the more 
famous tribune of that name, wrote in 1771: 
" The English are, in my opinion, a hundred times 
more agitated and more unfortunate than the very 
Algerines themselves, because they do not know 
and will not know till the destruction of their over- 
swollen power, which I believe very near, whether 
they are monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy, and 
wish to play the part of all three." England has 
not been obliging enough to fulfil the Bailli's proph- 
ecy, and perhaps it was this very carelessness about 
the name, and concern about the substance of pop- 
ular government, this skill in getting the best out 
of things as they are, in utilizing all the motives 
which influence men, and in giving one direction 
to many impulses, that has been a principal factor 
of her greatness and power. Perhaps it is fortU' 


nate to liaye an unwritten Constitution, for men 
are prone to be tinkering the work of their own 
hands, whereas they are more willing to let time 
and circumstance mend or modify what time and 
circumstance have made. All free governments, 
whatever their name, are in reality governments 
by public opinion, and it is on the quality of this 
public opinion that their prosperity depends. It 
is, therefore, their first duty to purify the element 
from which they draw the breath of life. With 
the growth of democracy grows also the fear, if 
not the danger, that this atmosphere may be cor- 
rupted with poisonous exhalations from lower and 
more malarious levels, and the question of sanita- 
tion becomes more instant and pressing. Demo- 
cracy in its best sense is merely the letting in of 
light and air. Lord Sherbrooke, with his usual 
epigrammatic terseness, bids you educate your 
future rulers. But would this alone be a sufficient 
safeguard ? To educate the intelligence is to en- 
large the horizon of its desires and wants. And 
it is well that this should be so. But the enter- 
prise must go deeper and prepare the way for sat- 
isfying those desires and wants in so far as they 
are legitimate. What is really ominous of danger 
to the existing order of things is not democracy 
(which, properly understood, is a conservative 
force), but the Socialism, which may find a ful- 
crum in it. If we cannot equalize conditions and 
f ortimes any more than we can equalize the brains 
of men — and a very sagacious person has said 
that " where two men ride of a horse one must ride 


behind " — we can yet, perhaps, do something to 
correct those methods and influences that lead 
to enormous inequalities, and to prevent their 
growing more enormous. It is all very well to 
pooh-pooh Mr. George and to prove him mistaken 
in his political economy. I do not believe that 
land should be divided because the .quantity of it 
is limited by nature. Of what may this not be 
said ? A fortiori^ we might on the same princi- 
ple insist on a division of human wit, for I have 
observed that the quantity of this haff been even 
more inconveniently limited. Mr. George himself 
has an inequitably large share of it. But ^ is 
right in his impelling motive ; right, also, I am 
convinced, in insisting that humanity makes a part, 
by far the most important part, of political econ- 
omy ; and in thinking man to be of more concern 
and more convincing than the longest columns of 
figures in the world. For imless you include hu- 
man nature in your addition, your total is sure to 
be wrong and your deductions from it fallacious. 
Communism means barbarism, but Socialism means, 
or wishes to mean, cooperation and community of 
interests, sympathy, the giving to the hands not so 
large a share as to the brains, but a larger share 
than hitherto in the wealth they must combine to 
produce — means, in short, the practical applica- 
tion of Christianity to life, and has in it the secret 
of an orderly and benign reconstruction. State 
Socialism would cut off the very roots in personal 
character — self-help, forethought, and frugality — 
which nourish and sustain the trunk and branches 
of every vigorous Commonwealth. 


I do not believe in violent changes, nor do I ex- 
pect them. Things in possession have a very firm 
grip. One of the strongest cements of society is 
the conviction of mankind that the state of things 
into which they are born is a part of the order of 
the imi verse, as natural, let us say, as that the sun 
should go round the earth. It is a conviction that 
they will not surrender except on compulsion, and 
a wise society should look to it that this compulsion 
be not put upon them. For the individual man 
there is no radical cure, outside of human nature 
itself, for the evils to which human natvre is heir. 
The rule will always hold good that you must 


Be your own palace or the world 's your gaol/* 

But for artificial evils, for evils that spring from 
want of thought, thought must find a remedy some- 
where. There has been no period of time in which 
wealth has been more sensible of its duties than 
now. It builds hospitals, it establishes missions 
among the poor, it endows schools. It is one of 
the advantages of accumulated wealth, and of the 
leisure it renders possible, that people have time to 
think of the wants and sorrows of their fellows. 
But all these remedies are partial and palliative 
merely. It is as if we should apply plasters to a 
single pustule of the small-pox with a view of driv- 
ing out the disease. The true way is to discover 
and to extirpate the germs. As society is now 
constituted these are in the air it breathes, in the 
water it drinks, in things that seem, and which it 
has always believed, to be the most innocent and 



healthful. The evil elements it neglects corrupt 
these in their springs and pollute them in their 
courses. Let us be of good cheer, however, re- 
membering that the misfortunes hardest to bear 
are those which never come. The world has out- 
lived much, and will outlive a great deal more, and 
men have contrived to be happy in it. It has 
shown the strength of its constitution in nothing 
more than in surviving the quack medicines it has 
tried. In the scales of the destinies brawn will 
never weigh so much as brain. Our healing is not 
in the storm or in the whirlwind, it is not in mon- 
archies, or aristocracies, or democracies, but will 
be revealed by the still small voice that speaks to 
the conscience and the heart, prompting us to a 
wider and wiser humanity. 




One thing and one only makes the record of the meet- 
ing at Exeter Hall on the 24th September worthy of sep- 
arate publication, and confers on it a certain distinction. 
Not what was said, but where it was said, in unison with 
what other voices, and in what atmosphere of sympathy, 
as spontaneous as it was universal, gives to the words 
spoken here their true point and emphasis. Never be- 
fore have Americans, speaking in England, felt so clearly 
that they were in the land, not only of their fathers, but 
of their brethren, 

" Their elder brothers, but one in blood." 

For the first time their common English tongue found 
its true office when Mother and Daughter spoke comfort- 
ing words to each other over a sorrow, which, if nearer 
to one, was shared by both. English blood, made up of 
the best drops from the veins of many conquering, or- 
ganizing, and colonizing races, is a blood to be proud of, 
and most plainly vindicates its claim to dominion when 
it recognizes kinship through sympathy with what is 
simple, steadfast, and religious in character. When we 

^ Printed first as a preface to the memorial volume, containing 
a recovd of the proceedings at the Exeter Hall meeting. 

^ . 


learn to respect each other for the good qualities in each, 
we are helping to produce and foster them. 

It is often said that sentimental motives never guide 
or modify the policy of nations, and it is no doubt true 
that state-craft more and more means business, and not 
sentiment ; yet men as old as the late Lord Stratford de 
Redcliffe could remember at least two occasions during 
their lives when a sentiment, and that, too, a literary 
sentiment, had much to do with the shaping of events 
and the new birth of nations. We would not over-esti- 
mate the permanent value of this outburst of feeling on 
both sides the sea, of this grasp of the hand across a 
recent grave, but we may safely affirm that they were 
genuine, and had, therefore, something of the enduring 
virtue that belongs to what is genuine, and to that only. 
It is something that two great nations have looked at 
each other kindly through their tears. It will at least be 
more awkward to quarrel hereafter. The sight of the 
British flag at half-mast on the day of an American 
funeral was something to set men thinking, and that 
fruitfully, of the great duty that is laid upon the English 
race among mankind. Well may we be proud of the 
Ancient Mother, and we will see to it that she have no 
reason to be ashamed of her children. i^ 

It behoves us Americans who have experienced no- 
thing but the kindness and hospitality and sympathy of 
England, to express thus publicly our sense of them. 
Especially would we thank the venerable prelate whose 
address we are permitted to include in this little volume. 
And emphatically would we express our conviction that 
the wreath sent with such touching delicacy of feeling by 
her Majesty the Queen to be laid upon the bier of Pres- 
ident Garfield, will be hung upon a golden nail in the 
Temple of Concord. 


Ladies and Gentlemen, Countrymen and 
Countrywomen: The object of this meeting, as 
you all know, is to testify our respect for the char- 
acter and services of the late President Garfield, 
and in so doing to offer such consolation as is possi- 
ble to a noble mother and a noble wife, suffering 
as few women have been called upon to suffer. It 
may seem a paradox, but the only alleviation of 
such grief is a sense of the greatness and costliness 
of the sacrifice that gave birth to it, and this sense 
is brought home to us by the measure in which 
others appreciate our loss. It is no exaggeration to 
say that the recent profoundly touching spectacle 
of womanly devotedness in its simplicity, its con- 
stancy, and its dignity has moved the heart of 
mankind in a manner without any precedent in 
living memory. But to Americans everywhere it 
comes home with a pang of mingled sorrow, pride, 
and unspeakable domestic tenderness that none 
but ourselves can feel. This pang is made more 
poignant by exile, and yet you will all agree with 
me in feeling that the universal sympathy expressed 
here by all classes and conditions of men has made 
lis sensible as never before, that, if we are in a 
strange, we are not in a foreign land, and that if 
we are not at home we are at least in what Haw- 
thorne so aptly called the Old Home. I should 
gladly dwell more at length upon this fact, so con- 
soling and so full of all good omen, but I must not 
infringe on the resolutions which will be presented 
to you by others. Yet I should do injustice to 


your feelings, no less than to my own, if I did not 
offer here our grateful acknowledgments to the 
august lady who, herself not unacquainted with 
grief, has shown so repeatedly and so touchingly 
how true a woman's heart may beat under the 
royal purple. 

On an occasion like this, when we are met to- 
gether that we may give vent to a common Reeling 
so deep and so earnest as to thrust aside every con- 
sideration of self, the wish of us all must be that 
what is said here should be simple, strong, and 
manly as the character of the illustrious magistrate 
so untimely snatched from us in the very seed-time 
of noble purpose, that would have sprung up in 
service as noble, — that we should be as tender and 
true as she has shown herself to be in whose be- 
reavement we reverently claim to share as children 
of the blessed country that gave birth to him and 
to her. We cannot find words that could reach 
that lofty level. This is no place for the turnings 
and windings of dexterous rhetoric. In the pre- 
sence of that death-scene so homely, so human, so 
august in its unostentatious heroism, the common- 
places of ordinary eulogy stammer with the sudden 
shame of their own ineptitude. Were we allowed 
to follow the natural promptings of our hearts, we 
would sum up all praise in the sacred old words, 
" Well done, thou good and faithful servant." 

That death-scene was more than singular ; it was 
unexampled. The whole civilized world was gath- 
ered about it in the breathless suspense of anx- 
ious solicitude, listened to the difficult breathing, 


counted the fluttering pulse, was cheered by the 
momentary rally and saddened by the inevitable 
relapse. And let us thank God and take courage 
when we reflect that it was through the manliness, 
the patience, the religious fortitude of the splendid 
victim that the tie of human brotherhood was 
thrilled to a consciousness of its sacred function. 
The one touch of nature that makes the whole 
world kin is a touch of heroism, our sympathy 
with which dignifies and ennobles. Science has 
wrought no greater marvel in the service of human- 
ity than when it gave the world a common nervous 
system, and thus made mankind capable of a simul- 
taneous emotion. 

One remarkable feature of that death-scene was 
the imperturbable good nature of the sufferer. 
This has been sometimes called a peculiarly Amer- 
ican quality, — a weakness if in excess or misap- 
plied, but beautiful in its own genial place, as 
there and then it was. General Garfield once said 
to a friend, " They tell me it is a defect of my char- 
acter, but I cannot hate anybody." Like Socrates, 
he seemed good-humored even with death, though 
there have been few men from whom death has 
ever wrenched a fairer heritage of opportunity. 
Physicians tell us that all men die well, but surely 
he was no ordinary man who could die well daily 
for eleven agonizing weeks, and of whom it could 
be said at last, — 

" He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon that memorahle scene." 

A fibre capable of such strain and wear as that is 


used only in the making of heroic natures. Twenty 
years ago General Garfield offered his life to his 
country, and he has died for her as truly and 
more fruitfully now than if fate had accepted the 
offer then. Not only has his blood re-cemented 
our Union, but the dignity, the patience, the self- 
restraint, the thoughtfulness for others, the serene 
valor which he showed under circumstances so dis- 
heartening and amid the wreck of hopes so splen- 
did, are a possession and a stimulus to his country- 
men forever. The emulation of examples like his 
makes nations great, and keeps them so. The soil 
out of which such men as he are made is good to 
be born on, good to live on, good to die for and to 
be buried in. 

I had not the honor of any intimacy of friend- 
ship with this noble man. Others will speak of him 
from more intimate knowledge. I saw him once or 
twice only, but so deeply was I impressed with the 
seriousness and solidity of his character, with his 
eager interest in worthy objects, and with the 
statesmanlike furniture of his mind, that when, 
many years afterwards, he was nominated for the 
Presidency I rejoiced in the wisdom of the selec- 
tion, and found in my memory an image of him 
clearer than that of any man I ever met of whom 
I had seen so little. And I may add that I have 
never known any man concerning whom a loving 
and admiring testimony was so uniform from men 
of every rank and character who had known him. 

" None knew him but to love him, 
None named him but to praise/' 


I shall not retrace the story of his life, but there 
is nothing that occurs to me so perfect in its com- 
pleteness since the Biblical story of Joseph. The 
poor lad who at thirteen could not read dies at fifty 
the tenant of an office second in dignity to none on 
earth, and the world mourns his loss as that of a 
personal relative. I find the word coming back to 
my lips in spite of me, "He was so humane An 
example of it was his kissing his venerable mother 
on the day of his inauguration. It was criticised, 
I remember hearing at the time, as a sin against 
good taste. I thought then, and think now, that if 
we had f oimd the story in Plutarch we should have 
thought no worse of the hero of it. 

It was this pliability of his to the impulse of un- 
conventional feeling that endeared him so much to 
his kind. Among the many stories that have been 
sent me, illustrating the sorrow so universally felt 
here, none have touched me so much as these two : 
An old gardener said to his mistress, " Oh, ma'am, 
we felt somehow as if he belonged to us ; " and in 
a little village on the coast, where an evangelist 
held nightly services on the beach, prayer was 
offered regularly for the recovery of the President, 
the weather-beaten fishermen who stood around the 
preacher with bowed, uncovered heads fervently 
responding, " Amen." You will also be interested 
to know that the benevolent Sir Moses Montefiore, 
now in his ninety-seventh year, telegraphed last 
week to Palestine to request that prayers might be 
offered for the President in the synagogues of the 
four holy cities. It was no common man who coidd 


call forth, and justly call forth, an emotion so uni- 
versal, an interest so sincere and so humane. 

I said that this is no place for eulogy. They 
who deserve eulogy do not need it, and they who 
deserve it not are diminished by it. The dead at 
least can bear the truth, and have a right to that 
highest service of human speech. We are not 
called upon here to define Garfield's place among 
the memorable of mankind. A great man is made 
up of qualities that meet or make great occasions. 
We may surely say of him that the great qualities 
were there, and were always adequate to the need, 
although, less fortunate than Lincoln, his career 
was snapped short just as they were about to be 
tested by the supreme trial of creative statesman- 
ship. We believe that he would have stood the 
test, and we have good reason for our faith. For 
this is certainly true of him, that a life more 
strenuous, a life of more constantly heightening 
tendency of fulfilment, of more salutary and invig- 
orating example, has not been lived in a country 
that is rich in instances of such. Well may we be 
proud of him, this brother of ours, recognized also 
as a brother wherever men honor what is praise- 
worthy in man. Well may we thank God for him, 
and love more the country that could produce and 
appreciate him. Well may we sorrow for his loss, 
but not as those without hope. Great as the loss 
is — and the loss of faculties trained like his is the 
hardest of all to replace — yet we should show a 
want of faith in our country if we called it irrepara- 
ble. Three times within living memory has the 


Vice-President succeeded to the presidential func- 
tion without shock to our system, without detriment 
to our national honor, and without check to our 
prosperity. It would be an indignity to discuss 
here the character of him who is now our chief 
magistrate, and who, more than any one, it is safe 
to say, has felt the pain of this blow. But there is 
no indecorum in saying what is known to all, that 
he is a gentleman of culture, of admittedly high in- 
telligence, of unimpeachable character, of proved 
administrative ability, and that he enters on his 
high duties with a full sense of what such a succes- 
sion implies. I am not one of those who believe 
that democracy any more than any other form of 
government will go of itself. I am not a believer 
in perpetual motion in politics any more than in 
mechanics, but, in common with all of you, I have 
an imperturbable faith in the honesty, the intelli- 
gence, and the good sense of the American people, 
and in the destiny of the American Kepublic. 



I AM very glad to have the privilege of uniting 
in this tribute to the memory of the remarkable 
man whose loss was felt as a personal bereavement 
by so great and so various a multitude of mourn- 
ers, and, as has been so well said by his successor, 
a multitude of mourners which included many who 
had never seen his face. I feel especially happy 
because it seems to me that my presence here is 
an augury of that day, which may be distant, but 
which I believe will surely come, when the char- 
acter and services of every eminent man of the 
British race in every land, under whatever distant 
skies he may have been born, shall be the common 
possession and the common inheritance and the 
common pride of every branch which is spnmg 
from our ancestral stem. As I look round upon 
this assembly, I feel that I may almost be pardoned 
if I apply again the well-known line, — 

** Si monuraentum requiris, circumspice/' 

The quality and the character of this meeting are 
In themselves a monument and a eulogy. It would 


be out of place for me to attempt any characteriza- 
tion of Dean Stanley in the presence of those so 
much more fitted than myself for the task ; but I 
may be allowed to say a few words from the point 
of view of a stranger. I remember, on the day of 
the Dean's funeral, what struck me as most re- 
markable was seeing all ranks and conditions of 
men equalized, all differences of creed obliterated, 
all animosities of sect and party appeased by the 
touch of that common sympathy in sorrow. The 
newspapers, as was natural and proper, remarked 
upon the number of distinguished persons who were 
present. To me, it seemed vastly more touching 
to look upon the number of humble and undistin- 
guished persons, who felt that their daily lives had 
lost a consolation and their hearts a neighbor and 
a friend. If I were to put in one word what struck 
me as perhaps the leading characteristic of Dean 
Stanley, and what made him so dear to many, I 
should say it was not his charity, though his char- 
ity was large, — for charity has in it sometimes, 
perhaps often, a savor of superiority; it was not 
his toleration, — for toleration, I think, is apt to 
make a concession of what should be simply rec- 
ognized as a natural right, — but it was rather, as 
it seems to me, the wonderful many-sidedness of his 
sympathies. I remember my friend Dr. Holmes, 
whose name I am sure is known, and if known is 
dear to most of you, called my attention to an epi- 
taph in the neighborhood of Boston, in New Eng- 
land. It recorded the name and date of the death 
of a wife and mother, and then added simply, " She 


was so pleasant." That always struck me in Dean 
Stanley. I think no man ever lived who was so 
pleasant to so many people. We visited him as 
we visit a clearer sky and a warmer climate. In 
thinking of this meeting this morning, I was re- 
minded of a proverbial phrase which we have in 
America, and which, I believe, we carried from 
England : we apologize for the shortcomings and 
faults of our fellow-beings by saying, " There is 
a great deal of human nature in man." I think 
the one leading characteristic of Dean Stanley — 
and I say it to his praise — was the amount of hu- 
man nature there was in him. So sweet, so gra- 
cious, so cheerful, so illuminating was it that there 
could not have been too much of it. It brought 
him nearer to all mankind, it recognized and called 
out the humanity that was in other men. His sym- 
pathies were so wide that they could not be con- 
fined by the boundaries of the land in which he was 
born: they crossed the channel and they crossed 
the ocean. No man was a foreigner to him, far 
less any American. And, in supporting the reso- 
lution, I should be inclined to make only one 
amendment : it would be to propose that the me- 
morial, instead of being national, should be interna- 
tional. Since I came into the room, I have heard 
from Sir Kutherford Alcock that he has received 
from Boston, through the hands of Rev. Phillips 
Brooks, a friend of Dean Stanley, a contribution 
of £206 toward the Stanley Hall. I am sure I 
am not pledging my countrymen to too much when 
I say that they will delight to share in this tribute 


to the late Dean. And England has lately given 
them, in so many ways, such touching and cordial 
reasons for believing tliat they cannot enter as 
strangers to any sorrow of hers, that I am sure you 
will receive most substantial and most sympathetic 
help from your kindred people on the other side of 
the Atlantic, with whom the bonds of sympathy 
have been lately drawn more close, and by nothing 
more strikingly than by the sympathy expressed, 
sir, by your Koyal Mother, in a way which touched 
every heart on the other side of the Atlantic, and 
has called forth repeated expressions of gratitude. 
It will give me great pleasure to do all I can to aid 
the enterprise which is started here tcniay. 



SHOULD have preferred that this office I am to 
form to-day had fallen to another. Especially 
is it seem fitting that an English author should 
:e the first place in doing honor to the most 
thoroughly English of writers; and yet there is 
something very pleasant to me in thinking that 
my presence here to-day bears witness to the imion 
of our tongue and of our literary traditions. I 
seem to be not inappropriately verifying the proph- 
ecy of Samuel Daniel made nearly three centuries 
ago: — 

** And who in time knows whither we may vent 
The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores 

The gain of our best glory may be sent 
To enrich unknowing nations with our stores ? 

What worlds in the yet unformed Occident 
May come refined with accents that are ours ? " 

I wish that I could hope to repay some part, how- 
ever small, of this obligation by any accents of 
mine. A whisper will ever and anon make itself 
heard by the inward ear of literary men, asking 
the importunate questions, "Pray, do you not 
ascribe a rather disproportionate relative impor- 


tance to the achievements of those of your own 
craft?** and ^^Does not genius manifest itself in 
many other ways, and those of far more practical 
usefulness to mankind ? " No doubt an over-esti- 
mate of ourselves aud of our own doings is a very 
common human failing, as we are all ready to ad- 
mit when we candidly consider our neighbors, and 
yet the world is led by a true instinct to agree with 
us in assigning to works of imagination a useful- 
ness higher in kind than any other, and in allowing 
to their authors a certain right of sanctuary in our 
affections, within whose limit the ordinary writs of 
human censure do not run ; for not only are the 
most vivid sensations of which our moral and in- 
tellectual nature is capable received through the 
imagination, but that mysterious faculty, in its 
loftiest and purest exercise, rescues us from our 
narrow personality, and lifts us up to regions of 
serener scope and more ideal satisfaction. It 
cheats us with a semblance of creative power that 
seems almost divine, and exhilarates us by a mo- 
mentary enlargement of the boimdaries of our con- 
scious being, as if we had been brought into some 
nearer relationship with elemental forces. This 
magic, it is true, is wrought to the full only by the 
three or four great poets, and by them only in their 
finest and most emancipated moments. Well may 
we value this incomparable gift ; well may we de- 
light to honor the men who were its depositaries 
and instruments. Homer and ^schylus, and Dante 
and Shakespeare, speak to us as to their contem- 
poraries, with an authority accumulated by all the 


years between them and us, and with a voice whose 
very remoteness makes it seem more divinely 
clear. At the height which these men were some- 
times capable of reaching, the processes of the 
mind seem to be intuitive. But sometimes we find 
our treasure in more earthen vessels; sometimes 
this wonder-working faculty is bestowed upon men 
whose natural and congenial element is the prose 
of cities and the conventionalized emotion of that 
artificial life which we are pleased to call real. 
Here it is forced to combine itself as best it may 
with the imderstanding, and it attains its ends — 
such lower ends as only are possible — through 
observation and slowly hoarded experience. Even 
then, though it may We lost its hfghest, it has not 
lost all its charm nor all the potency of its sway; 
for I am inclined to think that it is some form 
or other, some degree or other, of this vivida vis 
of imagination which breaks the fetters of men's 
self-consciousness for a while, and enables them to 
play with their facidties instead of toiling with 
them — gives them, in short, an indefinably de- 
lightful something that we call originality, or, 
when it addresses itself to artistic creation, genius. 
A certain sacredness was once attributed to the 
builders of bridges and makers of roads, and we 
but follow a natural and praiseworthy impulse 
when we cherish the memory and record the worth 
of any man of original and especially of creative 
mind, since it is the office of such also to open the 
highway for our fancy and our thought, through 
the chiaroscuro of tangled actualities in which we 


dwell, to commerce with fresh forms of nature 
and new varieties of man. It is the privilege of 
genius that to it life never grows commonplace as 
to the rest of us, and that it sees Falstaffs or Don 
Quixotes or Squire Westerns where we have never 
seen anything more than the ordinary Toms and 
Dicks and Harries whom an inscrutable Providence 
has seen fit to send into an already overpopu* 
lated world. These genius takes by the hand and 
leads through a maze of imaginary adventures ; ex- 
poses to a cross-play of fictitious circumstances, to 
the friction of other personages as unreal as them- 
selves, and we exclaim " Why, they are alive ; this 
is creation ! " Yes, genius has endowed them with 
a fulness of life, a completeness of being, such as 
even they themselves had never dreamed of, and 
they become truly citizens of the world forever. 
A great living poet, who has in his own work illu&- 
trated every form of imagination, has told us ad- 
mirably what the secret of this illusory creative- 
ness is, as no one has a better right to know. 

" I find first 
Writ down fop very a b c of fact, 
In the beginning God made heaven and earth, 
From which, no matter in what lisp, I speU 
And speak yon out a consequence — that man — 
Man, as befits the made, the inferior thing, 
Purposed since made to g^ow, not make in turn ; 
Tet forced to try and make, else fail to grow, 
Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain 
The good beyond him ; which attempt is growth — 
Repeats God's process in man's due deg^e, 
A harmony man's proportionate result ; 
Creates not, but resuscitates perhaps. 
No less man, bounded, yearning to be free, 


May so project his snrplnsagfe of soul, 
In search of body ; so add self to self, 
By owning what lay ownerless before, 
So find, so fill fall, so appropriate forms. 
. . . Though nothing which had never life. 
Shall get life from him, be, not haying been, 
Tet something dead may get to live again.'' 

Now the man whom we are met to commemorate 
to-day felt this necessity and performed this feat, 
and his works are become a substantial part of that 
English literature which may be said not merely to 
exist, but to live. They have become so, among 
other reasons, because he had the courage to be ab- 
solutely sincere, if he had not always the tact to 
see where sincerity is out of place. We may dis- 
cuss, we may estimate him, but we cannot push 
him from his place. His imagmation was of tha* 
secondary order of which I have spoken, subdued 
to what it worked in ; and his creative power is 
not less in degree than that of more purely ideal 
artists, but was different in kind, or, if not, is 
made to seem so by the more vulgar substance in 
which it wrought. He was inferior also in hav- 
mg no touch of tragic power or passion, though he 
can be pathetic when he will. There is nowhere 
a scene more pathetic than that of the supper 
Amelia prepares for Booth, who never comes to 
share it, and it is pathos made of materials as 
homely as Wordsworth himself would have chosen. 
Certainly Fielding's genius was incapable of that 
ecstasy of conception through which the poetic im- 
agination seems fused into a molten unity with its 
material, and produces figures that are typical with- 


out loss of characteristic individuality, as if they 
were drawn, not from what we call real life, but 
from the very source of life itself, and were cast 
in that universal mould about which the subtlest 
thinkers that have ever lived so long busied them- 
selves. Fielding's characters are very real per- 
sons ; but they are not types in the same sense as 
Lear and Hamlet. They seem to be men whom we 
have seen rather than men whom we might see if 
we were lucky enough, men who have been rather 
than who might have been. He was especially a 
humorist ; and the weakness of the humorist is that 
he can never be quite unconscious, for in him it 
seems as if the two lobes of the brain were never 
in perfect unison, so that if ever one of them be on 
the point of surrendering itself to a fine frenzy of 
unqualified enthusiasm, the other watches it, makes 
fun of it, renders it uneasy with a vague sense of 
absurd incongruity, till at last it is forced to 
laugh when it had rather cry. Heine turned this 
to his purpose, an^ this is what makes him so pro- 
foundly, and yet sometimes so impleasantly, pa- 
thetic. Shakespeare, as remarkable in this, per- 
haps, as in anything else, is the only man in whom 
the rarest poetic power has worked side by side at 
the same bench with humor, and has not been more 
or less disenchanted by it. I have lingered so long 
on general questions, not because I feared to meet 
more directly an objection which I am told has 
been made to this tribute of respect and affection 
for Fielding, but because I doubted whether it was 
necessary or wise to notice it at all; and yet, 


though it must be admitted that his books cannot 
be recommended virginibus puerisque^ I will say 
frankly that it is not because they would corrupt, 
but because they would shock; and surely this 
need not affect the fact that he was a great and 
original genius who has done honor to his country, 
which is what we chiefly have to consider here. A 
gallery of Somersetshire worthies from which he 
was absent would be as incomplete as a history of 
English literature that should not mention him. 

Fielding needs no recognition from us ; his fame 
is established and admitted, and his character is 
gradually clearing itself of the stains with which 
malice or jealousy or careless hearsay had dark- 
ened it. It has become an established principle of 
criticism that in judging a man we must take into 
account the age in which he lived, and which was 
as truly a part of him as he of it. Fielding's gen- 
ius has drawn forth the sympathetic commendation 
of such widely different men as Gibbon, Scott, 
Coleridge, Thackeray, and Leslie Stephen, and of 
such a woman as George Eliot. I possess a copy 
of " Tom Jones," the margins of which are crowded 
with fche admiring comments of Leigh Hunt, as 
pure-minded a man as ever lived, and a critic 
whose subtlety of discrimination and whose sound- 
ness of judgment, supported as it was on a broad 
base of truly liberal scholarship, have hardly yet 
won fitting appreciation. There can be no higher 
testimonials to character than these; and lately 
Mr. Austin Dobson has done, perhaps, as true a 
service as one man of letters ever did to another 


by reducing what little is known of the life of 
Fielding from chaos to coherence by ridding it of 
fable, by correcting and coordinating dates, by 
cross-examining tradition till it stammeringly con- 
fessed that it had no visible means of subsistence, 
and has thus enabled us to get some authentic 
glimpse of the man as he really was. He has res- 
cued the body of Fielding from beneath the swinish 
hoofs which were trampling it as once they tram« 
pled the Knight of La Mancha, whom Fielding so 
heartily admired. We reaUy know almost as little 
of Fielding's life as of Shakespeare's, but what we 
do know on any valid evidence is, I think, on the 
whole, highly creditable to him. Thrown upon the 
town at twenty with no training that would fit him 
for a profession, with the principles and tastes of 
the class to which he belonged by birth, and with 
a nominal allowance from his father of £200 a 
year, which, as he humorously said, " anybody 
might pay that would," it is possible that when he 
had money in his pocket he may have spent it in 
ways that he might blush to remember, and when 
his pocket was empty may have tried to replenish 
it by expedients that were not to his taste. But 
there is no proof of this except what is purely in- 
ferential, and there is evidence of the same kind, 
but stronger, that he had habits of study and in- 
dustry that are not to be put on at will as one puts 
on his overcoat, and that are altogether inconsis- 
tent with the dissolute life he is supposed to have 
led. The dramatic pieces that he wrote during his 
early period were, it is true, shamefully gross, 


though there are humorous hints in them that have 
been profitably worked up by later writers ; but 
what strikes me most in them is that there is so 
little real knowledge of life, the result of personal 
experience, and that the social scenery and concep- 
tion of character are mainly borrowed from his im- 
mediate predecessors, the dramatists of the Kestora- 
tion. In grossness his plays could not outdo those 
of Dryden, whose bust has stood so long without 
protest in Westminster Abbey. As to any harm 
they can do there is little to be apprehended, for 
they are mostly as hard to read as a Shapira manu- 
script. I do not deny that Fielding's temperament 
was far from being over nice. I am willing to ad- 
mit, if you will, that the woof of his nature was 
coarse and anima]. I should not stop short of say- 
ing that it was sensual. Yet he liked and admired 
the highest and best things of his time — the art of 
Hogaiiih, the acting of Garrick, the verse of Pope. 
He is said indeed to have loved low company, but 
his nature was so companionable and his hunger 
for knowledge so keen, that I fancy he would like 
any society that was not dull, and any conversa- 
tion, however illiterate, from which he could learn 
anything to his purpose. It may be suspected that 
the polite conversation of the men of that day 
would differ little, except in grammar, from the 
talk of the pothouse. 

As I have said, we must guard against falling 
into the anachronism of forgetting the coarseness 
of the age into which he was born, and whose at- 
mosphere he breathed. It was a generation whose 


sense of smell was undisturbed by odors that would 
now evoke a sanitary eonmiission, and its moral 
nostrils were of an equally masculine temper. A 
coarse thread shows itself here and there, even 
through the satiny surface of the fastidious Gray, 
and a taint of the century that gave him birth may 
be detected now and then in the " Doctor " of the 
pure and altogether admirable Southey. But it 
is objected that there is an immoral tendency in 
" Joseph Andrews," " Tom Jones," and " Amelia." 
Certainly none of them is calculated to serve the 
cause of virtue, or at any rate of chastity, if mea- 
sured by the standard of to-day. But as certainly 
that standard looks a little awkward in the hands 
of people who read George Sand and allow an ex- 
purgated edition of the Decalogue for the use of 
them that go in chariots. I confess that in my im- 
patience of such criticism I feel myself tempted, 
when Fielding's muse shows a too liberal ankle, to 
cry out with Tam O'Shanter, " Weel dune, cutty 
sark ! " His bluntness is more wholesome than the 
refinement of such critics, for the second of the 
Seven Deadly Sins is not less dangerous when she 
talks mysticism and ogles us through the gaps of 
a fan painted with the story of the Virgin Martyr. 
He did not go in search of impurity as if he rel- 
ished the reek of it, like some French so-called 
realists for whose title-pages I should be inclined 
to borrow an inscription from the old taveni- 
signs, " Entertainment for Man — and Beast." 
He painted vice when it came in his way (and it 
was more obvious in his time) as a figure in the 


social landscape, and in doing so he was perhaps a 
better moralist than those who ignore it altogether, 
or only when it lives in a genteel quarter of the 
town. He at least does not paint the landscape as 
a mere background for the naked nymph. He 
never made the blunder of supposing that the 
Devil always smelt of sulphur. He thought him- 
self to be writing history, and called his novels 
Histories, as if to warn us that he should tell the 
whole truth without equivocation. He makes all 
the sins of his heroes react disastrously on their 
fortunes. He assuredly believed himself to be 
writing with an earnest moral purpose in his two 
greater and more deliberately composed works, and 
indeed clearly asserts as much. I also fully believe 
it, for the assertion is justified by all that we know 
of the prevailing qualities of his character, what- 
ever may have been its failings and lapses, if fail- 
ings and lapses they were. It does not seem to 
have occurred to the English clergyman who wrote 
the epitaph over his grave at Lisbon that there 
was any question about the matter, and he espe- 
cially celebrates the moral purpose and effect of 
Fielding's works in Latin that would, perhaps, 
have made the subject of it a little uncomfortable. 
How, then, are we to explain certain scenes in 
these books, except by supposing that Fielding was 
utterly unconscious that there was any harm in 
them ? Perhaps we might also say that he was so 
sincere a hater of cant and sham and hypocrisy 
that in his wrath against them he was not careful 
to consider the want of ceremonious decorum in his 



protest, and forgot that frankness might stop short 
of cynicism without losing any of its virtue. He 
had so hearty an English contempt for sentimental- 
ity that he did not always distinguish true senti- 
ment from false, and setting perhaps an over-value 
on manliness, looked upon refinement as the omap 
ment and protection of womanly weakness rather 
than as what it quite as truly is — the crown 
and complement of manly strength. He admired 
Richardson, and frankly expressed his admiration ; 
yet I think that over a bowl of punch he might 
have misnamed him the "Homer of Boarding- 
school Misses," just as Sainte-Beuve called Octave 
Feuillet the "Alfred de Musset of Boarding- 

But besides all this. Fielding was a naturalist, in 
the sense that he was an instinctive and careful 
observer. He loved truth, and, for an artist, seems 
to have too often missed the distinction between 
truth and exactitude. He forgot the warning of 
Sir Walter Raleigh, perhaps more important to the 
artist than to the historian, that it is dangerous to 
follow truth too near the heels. His aim was to 
paint life as he saw it, not as he wished it was or 
hoped it might be ; to show us what men really did, 
not what they were pleased to believe they thought 
it would be well for other men to do : and this 
he did with a force, a directness, and a vividness 
of coloring that make him in the truest sense a 
painter of history. No one can fail to admit the 
justice of the analogy between him and his friend 
Hogarth in this respect, pointed out by Mr. Dob- 


son. In both cases we may regret that their model 
was too often no better than she should be. In the 
ease both of Tom Jones and of Booth, it is to be 
noted, so far as the moral purpose is concerned, 
that their lapse from virtue always draws after 
them a retribution which threatens ruin to their 
dearest desires. I think it ^as Thackeray who said 
that Fielding had dared to paint a man — an ex- 
ploit for which no one would have the courage now. 
This is not the place or occasion for a critical 
estimate of Fielding, even could one add anything 
of value to what has been already said by compe- 
tent persons. If there were a recognized standard 
in criticism, as in apothecaries' measure, so that by 
adding a grain of praise to this scale, or taking 
away a scruple of blame from that, we could make 
the balance manifestly even in the eyes of all men, 
it might be worth while to weigh Hannibal ; but 
when each of us stamps his own weights, and war- 
rants tluB impartiality of his own scales, perhaps 
the experiment may be wisely foregone. Let it suf- 
fice here to state generally the reasons for which we 
set a high value on this man whose bust we unveil 
to-day. Since we are come together, not to judge, 
but only to commemorate, perhaps it would be 
enough to say, in justification of to-day's ceremony, 
that Fielding was a man of genius ; for it is hardly 
once in a century, if so often, that a whole country 
catches so rare and shy a specimen of the native 
fauna, and proportionably more seldom that a 
county is so lucky. But Fielding was something 
more even than thi& It is not extravagant to say 


that he marks an epoch, and that we date from 
him the beginning of a consciously new form of 
literature. It was not without reason that Byron, 
expanding a hint given somewhere by Fielding 
himself, called him ^' the prose Homer of human 
nature." He had more than that superficial know- 
ledge of literature which no gentleman's head 
should be without. He knew it as a craftsman 
knows the niceties and traditions of his craft. He 
saw that since the epic in verse ceased to be recited 
in the market-places, it had become an anachro- 
nism ; that nothing but the charm of narrative had 
saved Ariosto, as Tasso had been saved by his 
diction, and Milton by his style ; but that since 
Milton every epic had been bom as dead as the 
Pharaohs — more dead, if possible, than the " Co- 
lumbiad " of Joel Barlow and the " Charlemagne " 
of Lucien Bonaparte are to us. He saw that the 
novel of actual life was to replace it, and he set 
himself deliberately (after having convinced him- 
self experimentally in Parson Adams that he could 
create character) to produce an epic on the lower 
and more neighborly level of prose. However 
opinions may differ as to the other merits of " Tom 
Jones," they are unanimous as to its harmony of 
design and masterliness of structure. 

Fielding, then, was not merely, in my judgment 
at least, an original writer, but an originator. He 
has the merit, whatever it may be, of inventing the 
realistic novel, as it is called. I do not mean to say 
that there had been no stories professedly of real 
life before. The story of " Francion " is such, and 


even more notably ** Gil Bias," not to mention oth- 
ers. But before Fielding it seems to me that real 
life formed rather the scenic background than the 
substance, and that the characters are, after all, 
merely players who represent certain types rather 
than the living types themselves. Fielding, as a 
novelist, drew the motives that impel his characters 
in all their actions from human nature, and not 
from artificial life. When I read " Gil Bias," I 
do not become part of the story — I listen to an 
agreeable story-teller who narrates and describes, 
and I wait to hear what is going to happen ; but in 
Fielding I want to see what people are going to do 
and say, and I can half guess what will happen, 
because I know them and what they are and what 
they are likely to do. They are no longer images, 
but actual beings. Nothing can persuade me, for 
example, that I do not know the sound of Squire 
Western's voice. 

Fielding did not and could not idealize, his ob- 
ject being exact truth, but he realized the actual 
truth around him as none had done before and few 
have done since. As a creator of characters that 
are actuated by a motive power within themselves, 
and that are so livingly real as to become our famil- 
iar acquaintances, he is among the greatest. Abra- 
ham Adams is excellent, and has had a numerous 
progeny, but I think that even he is inferior in 
originality, in coherence, and in the entire keep- 
ing of look, speech, motive, and action, to Squire 
Western, who is, indeed, one of the most simple 
and perfect creations of genius. If he has been 


less often copied than Parson Adams, may it not 
be because he is a more finished work of art, and, 
therefore, more difficult to copy ? I need not ex- 
patiate on the simple felicity and courteonsness of 
his style, the unobtrusive clothing of a thought as 
clear as it is often profound, or on the good-nature 
of his satire, in which he reminds one of Chaucer, 
or on the subtle gravity of his irony, more delicate 
than that of Swift, and, therefore, perhaps even 
more deadly. I will only say that I think it less 
perfect, because more obviously intentional, in 
" Jonathan Wild " than in such masterpieces as 
the account of Captain Blifil's death, and the epi- 
taph upon his tomb. When it seems most casual 
and inadvertent, it often cuts deepest, as when 
Squire Western, impatient of Parson Supple's in- 
tervention, says to him, " Am't in pulpit now ; 
when art a got up there then I never mind what 
dost say." I must not forget to say a word of his 
dialogue, which, except where he wishes to show 
off his attainments in classical criticism, as in some 
chapters of " Amelia," is altogether so admirably 
spirited and characteristic that it makes us wonder 
at his failure as a dramatist. We may read Field- 
ing's character clearly in his books, for it was not 
complex, but especially in his " Voyage to Lisbon," 
where he reveals it in artless inadvertence. He 
was a lovingly thoughtful husband, a tender father, 
a good brother, a useful and sagacious magistrate. 
He was courageous, gentle, thoroughly conscious of 
his own dignity as a gentleman, and able to make 
that dignity respected. If we seek for a single 


characteristic which more than any other would 
sum him up, we should say that it was his absolute 
manliness, a manliness in its tjrpe English from top 
to toe. It is eminently fitting, therefore, that the 
reproduction of his features, which I am about to 
unveil, should be from the hand of a woman. Let 
me close with a quotation which was a favorite 
with Fielding : — 

** Verum ubi plnra nitent, . . . non eg^o pauois 
Offendar maoulis, quae aut inouria fudit, 
Aut humana parum cavit natura." 



I SHOULD have preferred for many reasons, on 
which I need not dwell, for they must be present 
to the minds of all who hear me, that the duty I 
have undertaken to perform here to-day had fallen 
to other hands. But the fact that this memorial 
of one who, if not a great poet and a great teacher, 
had in him the almost over-abundant materials 
of both, is the gift of one of my countrymen, the 
late Rev. Dr. Mercer, of Newport, Rhode Island, 
through his executrix, Mrs. Pell, seems to supply 
that argument of fitness that would otherwise have 
been absent. It does more, and for this I prize 
it the more ; it adds a fresh proof, if any were 
needed, that not all the waters of that ocean which 
divides but cannot divorce them can wash out of 
the consciousness of either nation the feeling that 
we hold our intellectual property in common, that 
we own allegiance to the same moral and literary 
traditions, and that the fame of those who have 
shed lustre on our race, as it is an undivided in- 
heritance, so it imposes an equal debt of gratitude, 
an equal responsibility, on the two great branches 
of it. Twice before I have had the honor of 


speaking within the precincts of this structure, the 
double sanctuary of religion and renown, surely 
the most venerable of ecclesiastical buildings to 
men of English blood. Once again I was a silent 
spectator while his body was laid here to mingle 
with consecrated earth who more deeply than any 
other in modern times had penetrated with the 
ferment of his thought the thinking of mankind, 
an event of deep significance as the proclamation 
of that truce between science and religion which 
is, let us hope, the forerunner of their ultimate 
reconciliation. When I spoke here it was in com- 
memoration of personal friends, one of them the 
late Dean Stanley, dear to all, who knew him ; the 
other an American poet, dear to all who speak the 
English tongue. It is to commemorate another 
friend that I come here to-day, for who so worthy 
of the name as one who was our companion and 
teacher in the happiest hours of our youth, made 
doubly happy by the charm of his genius, and who 
to our old age brings back, if not the presence, at 
least the radiant image of the youth we have lost ? 
Surely there are no friends so constant as the 
poets, and among them, I think, none more faith- 
ful than Coleridge. I am glad to have a share in 
this reparation of a long injustice, for as we looked 
about us hitherto in Poet's Corner we were tempted 
to ask, as Cavalcante dei Cavalcanti did of Dante, 
If these are here through loftiness of genius, where 
is he? It is just fifty-one years ago that I be- 
came the possessor of an American reprint of Ga- 
lignani's edition of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats 


in one volume. It was a pirated book, and I trust 
I may be pardoned for the delight I had in it. I 
take comfort from the thought that there must be 
many a Scottish minister and laird now in Heaven 
who liked their claret none the less that it had paid 
no tribute to the House of Hanover. I have heard 
this trinity of poets taxed with incongruity. As 
for me, I was grateful for such infinite riches in a 
little room, and never thought of looking a Pegasus 
in the mouth whose triple burden proved a stronger 
back than that even of the Templars' traditional 
steed. Much later, but still long ago, I read the 
"Friend," the "Biographia Literaria," and other 
prose works of Coleridge. In what may be given 
me to say I shall be obliged to trust chiefly to a 
memory which at my time of life is gradually be- 
coming one of her own reminiscences, and is forced 
to compound as best she may with her inexorable 
creditor. Oblivion. But perhaps she will serve me 
all the better for the matter in hand, for what is 
proper here is at most a rapid generalization rather 
than a demonstration in detail of his claims to grate* 
ful remembrance. I shall naturally trust myself to 
judge him by his literary rather than by his meta- 
physical achievement. In the latter region I cannot 
help being reminded of the partiality he so often be- 
trays for clouds, and see him, to use his own words, 
" making the shifting clouds seem what you please,'* 
or " a traveller go from mount to mount through 
doudland, gorgeous land." Or sometimes I think 
of him as an alchemist in search of the philosoi 
pher's stone, and stripping the lead, not only from 


his own roof, but from that of the parish church 
itself, to quench the fiery thirst of his alembic. 
He seems never to have given up the hope of 
finding in the imagination some universal solvent, 
some magisterium majus, by which the lead of 
scepticism should be transmuted into the pure gold 
of faith, or, at least, persuaded to believe itself so. 
But we should not forget that many earnest and 
superior minds found his cloud castles solid habi- 
tations, nor that alchemy was the nursing mother 
of chemistry. He certainly was a main influence 
in showing the English mind how it could emanci- 
pate itself from the vulgarizing tyranny of common 
sense, and teaching it to recognize in the imagina- 
tion an important • factor not only in the happiness 
but in the destiny of man. In criticism he was, 
indeed, a teacher and interpreter whose service 
was incalculable. He owed much to Lessing, 
something to Schiller, and more to the younger 
Schlegel, but he owed most to his own sympathetic 
and penetrative imagination. This was the lifted 
torch (to borrow his own words again) that bade 
the starry walls of passages, dark before to the 
apprehension of even the most intelligent reader, 
sparkle with a lustre, latent in them to be sure, 
but not all their own. As Johnson said of Burke, 
he wound into his subject like a serpent. His 
analysis was elucidative mainly, if you will, but 
could not have been so except in virtue of the 
processes of constructive and philosophical criti- 
cism that had gone on so long in his mind as to 
make its subtle apprehension seem an instinct. 


As he was the first to observe some of the sky's 
appearances and some of the shyer revelations of 
outward nature, so he was also first in noting some 
of the more occult phenomena of thought and emo- 
tion. It is a criticism of parts and passages, and 
was scattered carelessly in obiter dicta, but it was 
not a bringing of the brick as a specimen of the 
whole house. It was comparative anatomy, far 
rather, which from a single bone reconstructs the 
entire living organism. Many of his hints and 
suggestions are more pregnant than whole treatises, 
as where he says that the wit of Hudibras is the 
wit of thought. 

But what I think constitutes his great power, as 
it certainly is his greatest charm, is the perpetual 
presence of imagination, as constant a quality with 
him as fancy is with Calderon. She was his life- 
long housemate, if not always hanging over his 
shoulders and whispering in his ear, yet within easy 
call, like the Abra of Prior — 

'* Abra was with him ere he spoke her name, 
And if he called another, Abra came/' 

It was she who gave him that power of sympathy 
which made his Wallenstein what I may call the 
most original translation in our language, unless 
some of the late Mr. Fitzgerald's be reckoned such. 
He was not exact any more than Chapman. The 
molten material of his mind, too abundant for the 
capacity of the mould, overflowed it in gushes of 
fiery excess. But the main object of translation 
he accomplishes. Poetry is reproduced as poetry, 
and genius shows itself as genius, patent even in 


the march of the verse. As a poet, the impression 
he made upon his greater contemporaries will, I 
believe, be the ultimate verdict of criticism. They 
all thought of him what Scott said of him, ^^ No 
man has all the resources of poetry in such profu- 
sion. . . . His fancy and diction would long ago 
have placed him above all his contemporaries had 
they been under the direction of a sound judgment 
and a steady will." No doubt we have in Cole- 
ridge the most striking example in literature of a 
great genius given in trust to a nerveless will and 
a fitful purpose. But I think the secret of his 
doing no more in poetry is to be found in the fact 
that the judgment, so far from being absent, grew 
to be there in excess. His critical sense rose like 
a forbidding apparition in the path of his poetic 
production. I have heard of a military engineer 
who knew so well how a bridge should be built that 
he could never build one. It certainly was not 
wholly indolence that was to blame in Coleridge's 
case, for though he used to say early in life that he 
had no " finger industry," yet he left behind him a 
mass of correspondence, and his letters are gener- 
ally long. But I do not care to discuss a question 
the answer to which must be left mainly to conjec- 
ture or to the instinct of individual temperament. 
It is enough for us here that he has written some 
of the most poetical poetry in the language, and 
one poeni, the " Ancient Mariner," not only unpar- 
alleled, but unapproached in its kind, and that 
kind of the rarest. It is marvellous in its mastery 
over that delightfully fortuitous inconsequence that 


is the adamantine logic of dreamland. Coleridge 
has taken the old ballad measure and given to it 
by an indefinable charm wholly his own all the 
sweetness, all the melody and compass of a sym- 
phony. And how picturesque it is in the proper 
sense of the word. I know nothing like it. There 
is not a description in it. It is all picture. De- 
scriptive poets generally confuse us with multipli- 
city of detail; we cannot see their forest for the 
trees ; but Coleridge never errs in this way. With 
instinctive tact he touches the right chord of asso- 
ciation, and is satisfied, as we also are. I should 
find it hard to explain the singular charm of his 
diction, there is so much nicety of art and purpose 
in it, whether for music or meaning. Nor does it 
need any explanation, for we all feel it. The words 
seem common words enough, but in the order of 
them, in the choice, variety, and position of the 
vowel-sounds they become magical. The most de- 
crepit vocable in the language throws away its 
crutches to dance and sing at his piping. I can- 
not think it a personal peculiarity, but a matter of 
universal experience, that more bits of Coleridge 
have imbedded themselves in my memory than of 
any other poet who delighted my youth — unless I 
should except the sonnets of Shakespeare. This 
argues perfectness of expression. Let me cite an 
example or two : — 

*' The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out, 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper through the dark 
Off shot the spectre barque/' 


Or take this as a bit of landscape : — 

** Beneath yon birch with silver bark 
And boughs so pendulous and fair, 
The brook falls scattered down the rock. 
And all is mossy there." 

It is a perfect little picture and seems so easily 
done. But try to do something like it. Coleridge's 
words have the unashamed nakedness of Scripture, 
of the Eden of diction ere the voluble serpent had 
entered it. This felicity of speech in Coleridge's 
best verse is the more remarkable because it was 
an acquisition. His earlier poems are apt to be 
turgid, in his prose there is too often a languor of 
profuseness, and there are pages where he seems 
to be talking to himself and not to us, as I have 
heard a guide do in the tortuous caverns of the 
Catacombs when he was doubtful if he had not 
lost his way. But when his genius runs freely and 
full in his prose, the style, as he said of Pascal, " is 
a garment of light." He knew all our best prose 
and knew the secret of its composition. When he 
is well inspired, as in his best poetry he commonly 
is, he gives us the very quintessence of perception, 
the clearly crystallized precipitation of all that is 
most precious in the ferment of impression after 
the impertinent and obtrusive particulars have 
evaporated from the memory. It is the pure visual 
ecstasy disengaged from the confused and confus- 
ing material that gave it birth. It seems the very 
beatitude of artless simplicity, and is the most fin- 
ished product of art. I know nothing so perfect 
in its kind since Dante. The tiny landscape I have 
cited reminds me in its laconic adequacy of — 


** Li msoelletti che de' verdi colli 
Del Casentin discendon g^uso in Amo, 
Faccendo i lor canali e freddi e mollL" 

I confess that I prefer the " Ancient Mariner ** to 
" Christabel," fine as that poem is in parts and 
tantalizing as it is in the suggestion of deeper 
meanings than were ever there. The " Ancient 
Mariner " seems to have come of itself. In " Chris- 
tabel " I fancy him saying, *' Go to, let us write an 
imaginative poem." It never could be finished on 
those terms. 

This is not the time nor the place to pass judg- 
ment on Coleridge the man. Doubtless it would 
have been happier for him had he been endowed 
with the business faculty that makes his friend 
Wordsworth so almost irritatingly respectable. 
But would it have been happier for us ? We are 
here to-day not to consider what Coleridge owed 
to himself, to his family, or to the world, but what 
we owe to him. Let us at least not volunteer to 
draw his frailties from their dread abode. Our 
own are a far more profitable subject of contem- 
plation. Let the man of imaginative temperament, 
who has never procrastinated, who has made all 
that was possible of his powers, cast the first stone. 
The cairn, I think, will not be as tall as Hector's. 
With Coleridge I believe the opium to have been 
congenital, and if we may judge by many a pro- 
foundly pathetic cry both in his poems and his let- 
ters, he answered grievously for his frailties during 
the last thirty years of his life. In an unpublished 
letter of his he says, speaking of another, but 


thinking certainly of himself, ''An unfortunate 
man, enemy to himself only, and like all of that 
character expiating his faults by suffering beyond 
what the severest judge would have inflicted as 
their due punishment." There let us leave it, for 
nothing is more certain than that our personal 
weaknesses exact the uttermost farthing of penalty 
from us while we live. Even in the dilapidation 
of his powers, due chiefly, if you will, to his own 
unthrifty management of them, we might, making 
proper deductions, apply to him what Mark An- 
tony says of the dead Caesar — 

'* He was the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of time.'* 

Whatever may have been his faults and weak- 
nesses, he was the man of all his generation to 
whom we should most unhesitatingly allow the dis- 
tinction /v^QTiiito tliQf, jq^f^rmo authentically pos- 
sessed from time to time by some influence that 
made mm better anH" neater than himS^f . If he 
lost himself too much in what Mr. Pater has ad- 
mirably called "impassioned contemplation," he 
has at least left us such a legacy as only genius, and 
genius not always, can leave. It is for this that 
we pay him this homage of memory. He himself 
has said that — 

*' It seems like stories from the land of spirits 
If any man obtain that which he merits, 
Or any merit that which he attains." 

Both conditions are fulfilled to-day. 




A FEW years ago my friend, Mr. Alexander Ire- 
land, published a very interesting volume which he 
called " The Book-Lover's Enchiridion," the hand- 
book, that is to say, of those who love books. It 
was made up of extracts from the writings of a 
great variety of distinguished men, ancient and 
modern, in praise of books. It was a chorus of 
many voices in many tongues, a hymn of gratitude 
and praise, full of such piety and fervor as can be 
paralleled only in songs dedicated to the supreme 
Power, the supreme Wisdom, and the supreme 
Love. Nay, there is a glow of enthusiasm and sin- 
cerity in it which is often painfully wanting in 
those other too commonly mechanical compositions. 
We feel at once that here it is out of the fulness 
of the heart, yes, and of the head, too, that the 
mouth speaketh. Here was none of that compul- 
sory commonplace which is wont to characterize 
those " testimonials of celebrated authors," by 
means of which publishers sometimes strive to 
linger out the passage of a hopeless book toward 
its requiescat in oblivion. These utterances which 
Mr. Ireland has gathered lovingly together are 


stamped with that spontaneousness* which is the 
mint-mark of all sterling speech. It is true that 
they are mostly, as is only natural, the utterances of 
literary men, and there is a well-founded proverbial 
distrust of herring that bear only the brand of the 
packer, and not that of the sworn inspector. But 
to this objection a cynic might answer with the 
question, " Are authors so prone, then, to praise 
the works of other people that we are to doubt 
them when they do it unasked?" Perhaps the 
wisest thing I could have done to-night would have 
been to put upon the stand some of the more 
weighty of this cloud of witnesses. But since your 
invitation implied that I should myself say some- 
thing, I will endeavor to set before you a few of 
the commonplaces of the occasion, as they may be 
modified by passing through my own mind, or by 
having made themselves felt in my own experience. 
The greater part of Mr. Ireland's witnesses tes- 
tify to the comfort and consolation they owe to 
books, to the refuge they have found in them from 
sorrow or misfortime, to their friendship, never es- 
tranged and outliving all others. This testimony 
they volunteered. Had they been asked, they 
would have borne evidence as willingly to the 
higher and more general uses of books in their ser- 
vice to the commonwealth, as well as to the indi- 
vidual man. Consider, for example, how a single 
page of Burke may emancipate the young student 
of politics from narrow views and merely contem- 
poraneous judgments. Our English ancestors, with 
that common-sense which is one of the most useful. 


thougli not oAe of the most engaging, properties 
of the race, made a rhyming proverb, which says 
that — 

" When land and goods are gfone and spent, 
Then learning is most excellent ; " 

and this is true so far as it goes, though it goes per- 
haps hardly far enough. The law also calls only 
the earth and what is immovably attached to it real 
pi'operty, but I am of opinion that those only arc 
real possessions which abide with a man after he 
has been stripped of those others falsely so called, 
and which alone save him from seeming and from 
being the miserable forked radish to which the bit- 
ter scorn of Lear degraded every child of Adam. 
The riches of scholarship, the benignities of litera- 
ture defy fortune and outlive calamity. They are 
beyond the reach of thief or moth or rust. As they 
cannot be inherited, so they cannot be alienated. 
But they may be shared, they may be distributed, 
and it is the object and office of a free public 
library to perform these beneficent functions. 

" Books," says Wordsworth, " are a real world," 
and he was thinking, doubtless, of such books as are 
not merely the triumphs of pure intellect, however 
supreme, but of those in which intellect infused 
with the sense of beauty aims rather to produce de- 
light than conviction, or, if conviction, then through 
intuition rather than formal logic, and, leaving 
what Donne wisely calls — 

*' Unconceming things matters of fact '' 

to science and the understanding, seeks to give 
ideal expression to those abiding realities of the 


spiritual world for which the outward and visible 
world serves at best but as the husk and symbol. 
Am I wrong in using the word realities ? wrong in 
insisting on the distinction between the real and 
the actual ? in assuming for the ideal an existence 
as absolute and self subsistent as that which ap- 
peals to our senses, nay, so often cheats them, in 
the matter of fact? How very small a part of 
the world we truly live in is represented by what 
speaks to us through the senses when compared 
with that vast realm of the mind which is peopled 
by memory and imagination, and with such shining 
inhabitants! These walls, these faces, what are 
they in comparison with the countless images, the 
innumerable population which every one of us can 
summon up to the tiny show-box of the brain, in 
material breadth scarce a span, yet infinite as space 
and time ? and in what, I pray, are those we gravely 
call historical characters, of which each new histo- 
rian strains his neck to get a new and different 
view, in any sense more real than the personages of 
fiction? Do not serious and earnest men discuss 
Hamlet as they would Cromwell or Lincoln ? Does 
Csesar, does Alaric, hold existence by any other or 
stronger tenure than the Christian of Bunyan or 
the Don Quixote of Cervantes or the Antigone of 
Sophocles? Is not the history which is luminous 
because of an indwelling and perennial truth to na- 
ture, because of that light which never was on land 
or sea, really more true, in the highest sense, than 
many a weary chronicle with names and date and 
place in which '^ an Amurath to Amurath sue- 


ceeds " ? Do we know as much of any authentio 
Danish prince as of Hamlet? 

But to come back a little nearer to Chelsea and 
the occasion that has called us together. The 
founders of New England, if sometimes, when they 
found it needful, an impracticable, were always a 
practical people. Their first care, no doubt, was 
for an adequate supply of powder, and they encour- 
aged the manufacture of musket bullets by enact- 
ing that they should pass as currency at a farthing 
each — a coinage nearer to its nominal value and 
not heavier than some with which we are familiar. 
Their second care was that " good learning should 
not perish from among us," and to this end they at 
once established the Grammar (Latin) School in 
Boston, and soon after the college at Cambridge. 
The nucleus of this was, as you all know, the be- 
quest in money by John Harvard. Hardly less 
important, however, was the legacy of his library, 
a collection of good books, inconsiderable measured 
by the standard of to-day, but very considerable 
then as the possession of a private person. From 
that little acorn what an oak has sprung, and from 
its acorns again what a vocal forest, as old Howell 
would have called it, — old Howell whom 1 love to 
cite, because his name gave their title to the " Es- 
says of Elia," and is borne with slight variation 
by one of the most delightful of modern authors. 
It was, in my judgment, those two foundations', 
more than anything else, which gave to New Eng- 
land character its bent, and to Boston that literary 
supremacy which, I am told, she is in danger of 


losing, but which she will not lose till she and all 
the world lose Holmes. 

The opening of a free public library, then, is a 
most important event in the history of any town. 
A college training is an excellent thing ; but, after 
all, the better part of every man's education is that 
which he gives himself, and it is for this that a 
good library should furnish the opportunity and 
the means. I have sometimes thought that our 
public schools undertook to teach too much, and 
that the older system, which taught merely the 
three K's, and taught them well, leaving natural 
selection to decide who should go farther, was the 
better. However this may be, all that is primarily 
needful in order to use a library is the ability to 
read. I say primarily, for there must also be the 
inclination, and, after that, some guidance in read- 
ing well. Formerly the duty of a Kbrarian was 
considered too much that of a watch-dog, to keep 
people as much as possible away from the books, 
and to hand these over to his successor as little worn 
by use as he could. Librarians now, it is pleasant 
to see, have a different notion of their trust, and 
are in the habit of preparing, for the direction of 
the inexperienced, lists of such books as they think 
best worth reading. Cataloguing has also, thanks 
in great measure to American librarians, become a 
science, and catalogues, ceasing to be labyrinths 
without a clue, are furnished with finger-posts at 
every turn. Subject catalogues again save the 
beginner a vast deal of time and trouble by sup. 
plying him for nothing with one at least of the 


results of thorough scholarship, the knowing where 
to look for what he wants. I do not mean by this 
that there is or can be any short cut to learning, 
but that there may be, and is, such a short cut to 
information that will make learning more easily 

But have you ever rightly considered what the 
mere ability to read means ? That it is the key 
which admits us to the whole world of thought and 
fancy and imagination? to the company of saint 
and sage, of the wisest and the wittiest at their 
wisest and wittiest moment ? That it enables us to 
see Avith the keenest eyes, hear with the finest ears, 
and listen to the sweetest voices of all time ? More 
than that, it annihilates time and space for us ; it 
revives for us without a miracle the Age of Won- 
der, endowing us with the shoes of swiftness and 
the cap of darkness, so that we walk invisible 
like fern-seed, and witness unharmed the plague at 
Athens or Florence or London ; accompany Caesar 
on his marches, or look in on Catiline in coun- 
cil with his fellow conspirators, or Guy Fawkes 
in the cellar of St. Stephen's. We often hear of 
people who will descend to any servility, submit to 
any insult, for the sake of getting themselves or 
their children into what is euphemistically called 
good society. Did it ever occur to them that there 
is a select society of all the centuries to which they 
and theirs can be admitted for the asking, a so- 
ciety, too, which wUl not involve them in ruinous 
expense and still more ruinous waste of time and 
health and faculties ? 


Southey tells ns that, in bis walk one stormy 
day, he met an old woman, to whom, by way of 
greeting, he made the rather obvious remark that 
it was dreadful weather. She answered, philosoph- 
ically, that, in her opinion, " anf/ weather was bet- 
ter than none ! " I should be half inclined to say 
that any reading was better than none, allaying the 
crudeness of the statement by the Yankee proverb, 
which tells us that, though ^ all deacons are good, 
there 's odds in deacons." Among books, certainly, 
there is much variety of company, ranging from 
the best to the worst, from Plato to Zola, and the 
first lesson in reading well is that which teaches us 
to distinguish between literature and merely printed 
matter. The choice lies wholly with ourselves. 
We have the key put into our hands ; shall we un- 
lock the pantry or the oratory ? There is a Walla- 
chiau legend which, like most of the figments of 
popular fancy, has a moral in it. One Bakala, a 
good-for-nothing kind of fellow in his way, having 
had the luck to offer a sacrifice especially well 
pleasing to God, is taken up into heaven. He finds 
the Ahnighty sitting in something Uke the best 
room of a Wallachian peasant's cottage — there is 
always a profound pathos in the homeliness of the 
popular imagination, forced, like the princess in 
the fairy tale, to weave its semblance of gold tissue 
out of straw. On being asked what reward he de- 
sires for the good service he has done, Bakala, who 
had always passionately longed to be the owner of 
a bagpipe, seeing a half worn-out one lying among 
some rubbish in a comer of the room, begs eagerly 


that it may be bestowed on him. The Lord, with 
a smile of pity at the meanness of his choice, 
grants him his boon, and Bakala goes back to 
earth delighted with his prize. With an infinite 
possibility within his reach, with the choice of wis- 
dom, of power, of beauty at his tongue's end, he 
asked according to his kind, and his sordid wish is 
answered with a gift as sordid. Yes, there is a 
choice in books as in friends, and the mind sinks 
or rises to the level of its habitual society, is sub- 
dued, as Shakespeare says of the dyer's hand, to 
what it works in. Cato's advice, ciim bonis amhvla^ 
consort with the good, is quite as true if we extend 
it to books, for they, too, insensibly give away their 
own nature to the mind that converses with them. 
They either beckon upwards or drag down. Du 
gleichst dem Geist den du hegreifst^ says the 
World Spirit to Faust, and this is true of the as- 
cending no less than of the descending scale. 
Every book we read may be made a round in the 
everJengthening ladder by which we cUmb to 
knowledge and to that temperance and serenity of 
mind which, as it is the ripest fruit of Wisdom, is 
also the sweetest. But this can only be if we read 
such books as make us think, and read them in 
such a way as helps them to do so, that is, by en- 
deavoring to judge them, and thus to make them 
an exercise rather than a relaxation of the mind. 
Desultory reading, except as conscious pastime, 
hebetates the brain and slackens the bow-string of 
Will. It communicates as little intelligence as the 
messages that run along the telegraph wire to the 


birds that perch on it. Few men learn the highest 
use of books. After lifelong study many a man 
discovers too late that to have had the philosopher's 
stone availed nothing without the philosopher to 
use it. Many a scholarly life, stretched like a talk- 
ing wire to bring the wisdom of antiquity into 
communion with the present, can at last yield us 
no better news than the true accent of a Greek 
verse, or the translation of some filthy nothing 
scrawled on the walls of a brothel by some Pom- 
peian idler. And it is certainly true that the ma- 
terial of thought reacts upon the thought itself. 
Shakespeare himself would have been commonplace 
had he been paddocked in a thinly shaven vocabu- 
lary, and Phidias, had he worked in wax, only a 
more inspired Mrs. Jarley. A man is known, says 
the proverb, by the company he keeps, and not 
only so, but made by it. Milton makes his fallen 
angels grow small to enter the infernal council 
room, but the soul, which God meant to be the spa- 
cious chamber where high thoughts and generous 
aspirations might commime together, shrinks and 
narrows itseK to the measure of the meaner com- 
pany that is wont to gather there, hatching con- 
spiracies against our better selves. We are apt to 
wonder at the scholarship of the men of three cen- 
turies ago and at a certain dignity of phrase that 
characterizes them. They were scholars because 
they did not read so many things as we. They had 
fewer books, but these were of the best. Their 
speech was noble, because they lunched with Plu- 
tarch and supped with Plato. We spend as much 


time over print as they did, but instead of com- 
muning with the choice thoughts of choice spir- 
its, and unconsciously acquiring the grand manner 
of that supreme society, we diligently inform our- 
selves, and cover the continent with a cobweb of 
telegraphs to inform us, of such inspiring facts as 
that a horse belonging to Mr. Smith ran away on 
Wednesday, seriously damaging a valuable carry- 
all ; that a son of Mr. Brown swallowed a hickory 
nut on Thursday ; and that a gi*avel bank caved in 
and buried Mr. Sobinson alive on Friday. Alas, 
it is we ourselves that are getting buried alive un- 
der this avalanche of earthy impertinences I It is 
we who, while we might each in his humble way 
be helping our fellows into the right path, or add- 
ing one block to the climbing spire of a fine soul, 
are willing to become mere sponges saturated from 
the stagnant goosepond of village gossip. This is 
the kind of news we compass the globe to catch, 
fresh from Bungtown Centre, when we might have 
it fresh from heaven by the electric lines of poet or 
prophet 1 It is bad enough that we should be com- 
peUed to know so many nothings, but it is down- 
right intolerable that we must wash so many bar- 
row-loads of gravel to find a grain of mica after 
all. And then to be told that the ability to read 
makes us all shareholders in the Bonanza Mine of 
Universal Intelligence ! 

One is sometimes asked by young people to rec- 
ommend a course of reading. My advice would 
be that they should confine themselves to the su- 
preme books in whatever literature, or still better 


to choose some one great author, and make them- 
selves tiioroughly familiar with him. For, as all 
roads lead to Home, so do they likewise lead away 
from it, and you will find that, in order to under- 
stand perfectly and weigh exactly any vital piece 
of literature, you wiU be gradually and pleasantly 
persuaded to excursions and explorations of which 
you little dreamed when you began, and will find 
yourselves scholars before you are aware. For re- 
member that there is nothing less profitable than 
scholarship for the mere sake of scholarship, nor 
anything more wearisome in the attainment. But 
the moment you have a definite aim, attention is 
quickened, the mother of memory, and all that you 
acquire groups and arranges itself in an order that 
is lucid, because everywhere and always it is in 
intelligent relation to a central object of constant 
and growing interest. This method also forces 
upon us the necessity of thinking, which is, after 
all, the highest result of all education. For what 
we want is not learning, but knowledge ; that is, 
the power to make learning answer its true end as 
a quickener of intelligence and a widener of our in- 
tellectual sympathies. I do not mean to say that 
every one is fitted by nature or inclination for a 
definite course of study, or indeed for serious study 
in any sense. I am quite willing that these should 
*' browse in a library," as Dr. Johnson called it, to 
their hearts' content. It is, perhaps, the only way 
in which time may be profitably wasted. But des- 
ultory reading will not make a "full man," as 
Bacon understood it, of one who has not Johnson's 


memory, his power of assimilation, and, above all, 
his comprehensive view of the relations of things. 
^^Bead not," says Lord Bacon, in his Essay of 
Studies, ^^ to contradict and confute ; nor to believe 
and take for granted ; nor to find talk and dis- 
course; but to weigh and consider. Some books 
are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and 
some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some 
books are to be read only in parts ; others to be 
read, but not curiously [carefully], and some few 
to be read wholly and with diligence and attention. 
Some books also may be read by deputy J*^ This is 
weighty and well said, and I would call your at- 
tention especially to the wise words with which the 
passage closes. The best books are not always 
those which lend themselves to discussion and com- 
ment, but those (like Montaigne's Essays) which 
discuss and comment ourselves. 

I have been speaking of such books as should be 
chosen for profitable reading. A public library, of 
course, must be far wider in its scope. It should 
contain something for all tastes, as well as the ma- 
terial for a thorough grounding in all branches of 
knowledge. It should be rich in books of reference, 
in encyclopaedias, where one may learn without cost 
of research what things are generally known. For 
it is far more useful to know these than to know 
those that are not generally known. Not to know 
them is the defect of those half-trained and there- 
fore hasty men who find a mare's nest on every 
branch of the tree of knowledge. A library should 
contain ample stores of history, which, if it do not 


always deserve the pompous title which Boling- 
broke gave it, of philosophy teaching by example, 
certainly teaches many things profitable for us to 
know and lay to heart ; teaches, among other things, 
how much of the present is still held in mortmain 
by the past ; teaches that, if there be no control- 
ling purpose, there is, at least, a sternly logical se- 
quence in human affairs, and that chance has but 
a trifling dominion over them ; teaches why things 
are and must be so and not otherwise, and that, 
of all hopeless contests, the most hopeless is that 
which fools are most eager to challenge — with the 
Nature of Things ; teaches, perhaps, more than 
anything else, the value of personal character as a 
chief factor in what used to be called destiny, for 
that cause is strong which has not a multitude, 
but one strong man behind it. History is, indeed, 
mainly the biography of a few imperial men, and 
forces home upon us the useful lesson how infini- 
tesimally important our own private affairs are to 
the universe in general. History is clarified expe- 
rience, and yet how little do men profit by it ; nay, 
how should we expect it of those who so seldom are 
taught anything by their own I Delusions, espe- 
cially economical delusions, seem the only things 
that have any chance of an earthly immortality. I 
would have plenty of biography. It is no insignifi- 
cant fact that eminent men have always loved their 
Plutarch, since example, whether for emulation or 
avoidance, is never so poignant as when presented 
to us in a striking personality. Autobiographies 
are also instructive reading to the student of human 


nature, though generally written by men who are 
more interesting to themselves than to their fel- 
low men. I have been told that Emerson and 
George Eliot agreed in thinking Rousseau's " Con- 
fessions " the most interesting book they had ever 

A public library, should also have many and full 
shelves of political economy, for the dismal science, 
as Carlyle called it, if it prove nothing else, will go 
far towards proving that theory is the bird in the 
bush, though she sing more sweetly than the night- 
ingale, and that the millennium will not hasten its 
coming in deference to the most convincing string 
of resolutions that were ever unanimously adopted 
in public meeting. It likewise induces in us a pro- 
found and wholesome distrust of social panaceas. 

I would have a public library abundant in trans- 
lations of the best books in all languages, for, 
though no work of genius can be adequately trans- 
lated, because every word of it is permeated with 
what Milton calls "the precious life-blood of a 
master spirit " which cannot be transfused into the 
veins of the best translation, yet some acquaintance 
with foreign and ancient literatures has the liber- 
alizing effect of foreign travel. He who travels by 
translation travels more hastily and superficially, 
but brings home something that is worth having, 
nevertheless. Translations properly used, by short- 
ening the labor of acquisition, add as many years 
to our lives as they subtract from the processes of 
our education. Looked at from any but the aBS- 
thetic point of view, translations retain whatever 


property was in their originals to enlarge, liberalize, 
and refine the mind. At the same time I would 
have also the originals of these translated books as 
a temptation to the study of languages, which has 
a special use and importance of its own in teaching 
us to understand the niceties of our mother tongue. 
The practice of translation, by making us deliber- 
ate in the choice of the best equivalent of the for- 
eign word in our own language, has likewise the 
advantage of continually schooling us in one of the 
main elements of a good style, — precision ; and 
precision of thought is not only exemplified by pre- 
cision of language, but is largely dependent on the 
habit of it. 

In such a library the sciences should be fully 
represented, that men may at least learn to know 
in what a marvellous museum they live, what a 
wonder-worker is giving them an exhibition daily 
for nothing. Nor let Art be forgotten in all its 
many forms, not as the antithesis of Science, but 
as her elder or fairer sister, whom we love all the 
more that her usefulness cannot be demonstrated 
in dollars and cents. I should be thankful if every 
day-laborer among us could have his mind illu- 
mined, as those of Athens and of Florence had, 
with some image of what is best in architecture, 
painting, and sculpture, to train his crude percep- 
tions and perhaps call out latent faculties. I 
should like to see the works of Ruskin within the 
reach of every artisan among us. For I hope 
some day that the delicacy of touch and accu- 
racy of eye that have made our mechanics in some 


departments the best in the world, may give ns the 
same supremacy in works of wider range and more 
purely ideal scope. 

Voyages and travels I would also have, good 
store, especially the earlier, when the world was 
fresh and unhackneyed and men saw things invisi- 
ble to the modem eye. They are fast sailing ships 
to waft away from present trouble to the Fortunate 

To wash down the drier morsels that every 
library must necessarily offer at its board, let there 
be plenty of imaginative literature, and let its 
range be not too narrow to stretch from Dante to 
the elder Dumas. The world of the imagination is 
not the world of abstraction and nonentity, as some 
conceive, but a world formed out of chaos by a 
sense of the beauty that is in man and the earth on 
which he dwells. It is the realm of Might-be, our 
haven of refuge from the shortcomings and disillu- 
sions of life. It is, to quote Spenser, who knew it 
well — 

'* The world^g sweet inn from care and wearisome turmoiL" 

Do we believe, then, that God gave us in mockery 
this splendid faculty of sympathy with things that 
are a joy forever? For my part, I believe that 
the love and study of works of imagination is of 
practical utility in a country so profoundly material 
(or, as we like to call it, practical) in its leading 
tendencies as ours. The hunger after purely intel- 
lectual delights, the content with ideal possessions, 
cannot but be good for us in maintaining a whole- 


some balance of the character and of the facul- 
ties. I for one shall never be persuaded that 
Shakespeare left a less useful legacy to his coun- 
trymen than Watt. We hold all the deepest, all 
the highest satisfactions of life as tenants of imagi- 
nation. Nature will keep up the supply of what 
are called hard-headed people without our help, 
and, if it come to that, there are other as good 
uses for heads as at the end of battering rams. 

I know that there are many excellent people 
who object to the reading of novels as a waste of 
time, if not as otherwise harmful. But I think 
they are trying to outwit nature, who is sure to 
prove cunninger than they. Look at children. 
One boy shall want a chest of tools, and one a 
book, and of those who want books one shall ask 
for a botany, another for a romance. They will be 
sure to get what they want, and we are doing a 
grave wrong to their morals by driving them to do 
things on the sly, to steal that food which their 
constitution craves and which is wholesome for 
them, instead of having it freely and frankly given 
them as the wisest possible diet. If we cannot 
make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, so neither 
can we hope to succeed with the opposite experi- 
ment. But we may spoil the silk for its legitimate 
uses. I can conceive of no healthier reading for a 
boy, or girl either, than Scott's novels, or Cooper's, 
to speak only of the dead. I have found them 
very good reading at least for one young man, for 
one middle-aged man, and for one who is grow- 
ing old. No, no — banish the Antiquary, banish 


Leather Stocking, and banish all the world ! Let 
us not go about to make life duller than it is. 

But I must shut the doors of my imaginary 
library or I shall never end. It is left for me to 
say a few words of cordial acknowledgment to Mr. 
Fitz for his judicious and generous gift. I have 
great pleasure in believing that the custom of giv- 
ing away money during their lifetime (and there is 
nothing harder for most men to part with, except 
prejudice) is more common with Americans than 
with any other people. It is a still greater plea- 
sure to see that the favorite direction of their be- 
neficence is towards the founding of colleges and 
libraries. My observation has led me to believe 
that there is no country in which wealth is so 
sensible of its obligations as our own. And, as 
most of our rich men have risen from the ranks, 
may we not fairly attribute this sympathy with 
their kind to the benign influence of democracy 
rightly understood ? My dear and honored friend, 
George William Curtis, told me that he was sit- 
ting in front of the late Mr. Ezra Cornell in a 
convention, where one of the speakers made a 
Latin quotation. Mr. Cornell leaned forward and 
asked for a translation of it, which Mr. Curtis 
gave him. Mr. Cornell thanked him, and added, 
'' If I can help it, no young man shall grow up in 
New York hereafter without the chance, at least, 
of knowing what a Latin quotation means when he 
hears it." This was the germ of Cornell University, 
and it found food for its roots in that sympathy 
and thoughtfulness for others of which 1 just 


spoke. This is the healthy side of that good na- 
ture which democracy tends to foster, and which is 
so often harmful when it has its root in indolence 
or indifference ; especially harmful where our pub- 
lie affairs are concerned, and where it is easiest, 
because there we are giving away what belongs to 
other people. It should be said, however, that in 
this country it is as laudably easy to procure signa- 
tures to a subscription paper as it is shamefully so 
to obtain them for certificates of character and 
recommendations to office. And is not this public 
spirit a national evolution from that frame of mind 
in which New England was colonized, aud which 
found expression in these grave words of Robinson 
and Brewster : " We are knit together as a body 
in a most strict and sacred bond and covenant of 
the Lord, of the violation of which we make great 
conscience, and by virtue whereof we hold our- 
selves strictly tied to all care of each other's good, 
and of the whole." Let us never forget the deep 
and solemn import of these words. The problem 
before us is to make a whole of our many discor- 
dant parts, our many foreign elements, and I know 
of no way in which this can better be done than by 
providing a common system of education and a 
common door of access to the best books by which 
that education may be continued, broadened, and 
made fruitful. For it is certain that, whatever we 
do or leave undone, those discordant parts and 
foreign elements are to be, whether we will or no, 
members of that body which Robinson and Brews- 
ter had in mind, bone of our bone, and flesh of our 


flesh, for good or iU. I am happy in beKeving 
that democracy has enough vigor of constitution to 
assimilate these seemingly indigestible morsels and 
transmute them into strencrth of muscle and sym- 

There is no way in which a man o^an build so 
secure and lasting a monument for himself as in 
a public library. Upon that he may confidently 
allow " Kesurgam " to be carved, for, through his 
good deed, he will rise again in the grateful re- 
membrance and in the lifted and broadened minds 
and fortified characters of generation after genera- 
tion. The pyramids may forget their builders, 
but memorials such as this have longer memories. 

Mr. Fitz has done his part in providing your 
library with a dwelling. It will be for the citizens 
of Chelsea to provide it with worthy habitants. 
So shall they, too, have a share in the noble eulogy 
of the ancient wise man: ^'The teachers shall 
shine as the firmament, and they that turn many 
to righteousness as the stars forever and ever." 



10 MAY, 1884. 

In an early volume of the " Philosophical Trans- 
actions" there is a paper concerning "A certain 
kind of Lead found in Germany proper for Essays." 
That it may have been first found in Germany I 
shall not question, but deposits of this depressing 
mineral have been discovered since in other coun- 
tries also, and we are all of us more or less familiar 
with its presence in the essay, — nowhere more 
than when this takes the shape of a critical dis- 
sertation on some favorite poet. Is this, then, 
what poets are good for, that we may darken them 
with our elucidations, or bury them out of sight 
imder the gathering silt of our comments ? Must 
we, then, peep and botanize on the rose of dawn 
or the passion-flower of sunset? I should rather 
take the counsel of a great poet, the commentaries 
on whom already make a library in themselves, and 

'^ State content!, umana g^nte, al quia," 

be satisfied if poetry be delightful, or helpful, op 
inspiring, or all these together, but do not con- 
sider too nicely why it is so. 


I would not have you suppose that I am glan- 
cing covertly at what others, from Coleridge down, 
have written of Wordsworth. I have read them, 
including a recent very suggestive contribution of 
Mr. Swinburne, with no other sense of dissatisfac- 
tion than that which springs from " desiring this 
man's art and that man's scope." No, I am think- 
ing only that whatever can b6 profitably or un- 
profitably said of him has been already said, and 
that what is said for the mere sake of saying it is 
not worth saying at all. Moreover, I myself have 
said of him what I thought good more than twenty 
years ago.^ It is as wearisome to repeat one's self 
as it is profitless to repeat others, and that we have 
said something, however inadequate it may after- 
^ards seem to us, is a great hindrance to saying 
anything better. 

The only function that a president of the Words- 
worth Society is called on to perform is that of 
bidding it farewell at the end of his year, and it is 
perhaps fortunate that I have not had the leisure 
to prepare a discourse so deliberate as to be more 
worthy of the occasion. Without unbroken time 
there can be no consecutive thought, and it is my 
misfortune that in the midst of a reflection or of a 
sentence I am liable to be called away by the bell 
of private or public duty. Even had I been able 
to prepare something that might have satisfied me 
better, I should still be at the disadvantage of fol- 
lowing next after a retiring president^ who always 

1 Literary Essays, iv. 354. 
^ Mr. Matthew Arnold. 


has the art of saying what all of us would be glad 
to say if we could, and who in his address last year 
gave us what seemed to me the finished model of 
what such a performance should be. 

During the year that has passed since our last 
Annual Meeting, however idle the rest of us may 
have been, our secretary has been fruitfully busy, 
and has given us two more volumes of what it is safe 
to say will be the standard and definitive edition 
of the poet's works. In this, the chronological 
arrangement of the several poems, and still more 
the record in the margin of the author's corrections 
or repentances (pentimenti^ as the Italians prettily 
call them), furnish us with a kind of self-register- 
ing instrument of the exactest kind by which to 
note, if not always the growth of his mind, yet cer- 
tainly the gradual clarification of his taste, and the 
somewhat toilsome education of his ear. It is 
plain that with Wordsworth, more than with most 
poets, poetry was an art, — an art, too, rather pain- 
\^ fully acquired by one who was endowed by nature 

with more of the vision than of the faculty divine. 
Some of the more important omissions, especially, 
seem silently to indicate changes of opinion, though 
oftener, it may be suspected, of mood, or merely a 
shifting of the point of view, the natural conse- 
quence of a change for the better in his own ma- 
terial condition. 

One result of this marshalling of the poems by 
the natural sequence of date is the conviction that, 
whatever modifications Wordsworth's ideas con- 
cerning certain social and political questions may 



have undergone, these modifications had not their 
origin in inconsiderate choice, or in any seduction 
of personal motive, but were the natural and un- 
conscious outcome of enlarged experience, and of 
more profound reflection upon it. I see no reason 
to think that he ever swerved from his early faith 
in the beneficence of freedom, but rather that he 
learned the necessity of defining more exactly in 
what freedom consisted, and the conditions, whether 
of time or place, under which alone it can be bene- 
ficent, of insisting that it must be an evolution and 
not a manufacture, and that it should coordinate 
itself with the prior claims of society and civiliza- 
tion. The process in his mind was the ordinary 
crystallization of sentiment hitherto swimming in 
vague solution, and now precipitated in principles. 
He had made the inevitable discovery that comes 
with years, of how much harder it is to do than to 
see what 't were good to do, and grew content to 
build the poor man's cottage, since the means did 
not exist of building the prince's palace he had 
dreamed. It is noticeable how many of his earlier 
poems turn upon the sufferings of the poor from 
the injustice of man or the unnatural organization 
of society. He himself had been the victim of an 
abuse of the power that rank and wealth some- 
times put into the hands of unworthy men, and 
had believed in political methods, both for remedy 
and prevention. He had believed also in the 
possibility of a gregarious regeneration of man by 
sudden and sharp, if need were by revolutionary 
expedients, like those impromptu conversions of 


the inhabitants of a city from Christ to Mahomet, 
or back again, according to the creed of their con- 
queror, of which we read in mediseval romances. 
He had fancied that the laws of the universe would 
curtsy to the resolves of the National Convention. 
He had seen this hope utterly baffled and confuted, 
as it seemed, by events in France, by events that had 
occurred, too, in the logical sequence foretold by 
students of history. He had been convinced, per- 
haps against his will, that a great part of human 
suffering has its root in the nature of man, and not 
in that of his institutions. Where was the remedy 
to be found, if remedy indeed there were ? It was 
to be sought at least only in an improvement 
wrought by those moral influences that build up 
and buttress the personal character. Goethe taught 
the self-culture that results in seK-possession, in 
breadth and impartiality of view, and in equipoise 
of mind ; Wordsworth inculcated that self-develop- 
ment through intercourse with man and nature 
which leads to self-sufflcingness, self-sustainment, 
and equilibrium of character. It was the individ- 
ual that should and could be leavened, and through 
the individual the lump. To reverse the process 
was to break the continuity of history and to wres- 
tle with the angel of destiny. 

And for one of the most powerfully effective of 
the influences for which he was seeking, where 
should he look if not to Religion ? The sublimities 
and amenities of outward nature might suffice for 
WiDiam Wordsworth, might for him have almost 
filled the place of a liberal education; but they 


elevate, teach, and above all console the imagina* 
tive and solitary only, and suffice to him who al- 
ready suffices to himself. The thought of a god 
vaguely and vaporously dispersed throughout the 
visible creation, the conjecture of an animating 
principle that gives to the sunset its splendors, its 
passion to the storm, to cloud and wind their sym- 
pathy of form and movement, that sustains the 
faith of the crag in its forlorn endurance, and of 
the harebell in the slender security of its stem, 
may inspire or soothe, console or fortify, the man 
whose physical and mental fibre is so sensitive that, 
like the spectroscope, it can both feel and record 
these impalpable impulses and impressions, these 
impersonal vibrations of identity between the frag- 
mentary life that is in himself and the larger life 
of the universe whereof he is a particle. Such 
supersensual emotions might help to make a poem, 
but they would not make a man, still more a social 
being. Absorption in the whole would not tend to 
that development of the individual which was the 
comer-stone of Wordsworth's edifice. 

That instinct in man which leads him to fashion 
a god in his own image, why may it not be an in- 
stinct as natural and wholesome as any other? 
And it is not only God that this instinct embodies 
and personifies, but every prof ounder abstract con- 
ception, every less selfish devotion of which man is 
capable. Was it, think you, of a tiny crooked out- 
line on the map, of so many square miles of earth, 
or of Hume and Smollett's History that Nelson 
was thinking when he dictated what are perhaps 


the most inspiring words ever nttered by an Eng- 
lishman to Englishmen ? Surely it was something 
in woman's shape that rose before him with all the 
potent charm of noble impulsion that is hers as 
much through her weakness as her strength. And 
the features of that divine apparition, had they not 
been painted in every attitude of their changeful 
beauty by Romney ? 

Coarse and rudimentary as this instinct is in the 
savage, it is sublimed and etherealized in the pro- 
foundly spiritual imagination of Dante, which yet 
is forced to admit the legitimacy of its operation. 
Beatrice teUs him — 

'* Thus to yonr minds it needful is to speak, 
Because through sense alone they understand : 
It is for this that Scripture condescends 
Unto your faculties, and feet and hands 
To God attributes, meaning something else." 

And in what I think to be the sublimest reach to 
which poetry has risen, the conclusion of the " Par- 
adiso," Dante tells us that within the three whirl- 
ing rings of vari-colored light that symbolize the 
wisdom, the power, and the love of God, he seems 
to see the image of man. 

Wordsworth would appear to have been con- 
vinced that this Something deeply interfused, this 
pervading but illusive intimation, of which he was 
dimly conscious, and that only by flashes, could 
never serve the ordinary man, who was in no way 
and at no time conscious of it, as motive, as judge, 
and more than all as consoler, — could never fill 
the place of the Good Shepherd. Observation con- 


vinced him tliat what are called the safeguards of 
society are the staff also of the individual members 
of it; that tradition, habitude, and heredity are 
great forces, whether for impulse or restraint. He 
had pondered a pregnant phrase of the poet Daniel, 
where he calls religion ^^ mother of Form and 
Fear." A growing conviction of its profound truth 
turned his mind towards the Church as the embod- 
iment of the most potent of all traditions, and to 
her public offices as the expression of the most 
socially humanizing of all habitudes. It was no 
empty formalism that could have satisfied his con- 
ception, but rather that ^^ Ideal Form, the universal 
mould," iiiQ,tJbrma mentis cetema which has given 
shape and expression to the fears and hopes and 
aspirations of mankind. And what he understood 
by Fear is perhaps shadowed forth in the " Ode to 
Duty," in which he speaks to us out of an ampler 
ether than in any other of his poems, and which 
may safely ^' challenge insolent Greece and haughty 
Rome " for a comparison either in kind or degree. 

I ought not to detain you longer from the inter- 
esting papers, the reading of which has been prom- 
ised for this meeting. No member of this Society 
would admit that its existence was needed to keep 
alive an interest in the poet, or to promote the 
study of his works. But I think we should all con- 
sent that there could be no better reason for its 
being than the fact that it elicits an utterance of 
the impression made by his poetry on many differ- 
ent minds looking at him from as many different 
points of view. That he should have a special 


meaning for eveiy one in an audience so various in 
temperament and character might well induce us 
to credit him with a wider range of sympathies and 
greater breadth of thought than each of us sepa- 
rately would, perhaps, be ready to admit. 

But though reluctant to occupy more than my 
fair share of your time, the occasion tempts me 
irresistibly to add a few more words of general 
criticism. It has seemed to me that Wordsworl 
has too commonly been estimated rather as philoso- 
pher or teacher than as poet. The value of what 
he said has had more influence*with the jury than 
the way in which he said it. There are various 
methods of criticism, but I think we should all 
agree that literary work is to be judged from the 
purely literary point of view. 

If it be one of the baser consolations, it is also 
one of the most disheartening concomitants of long 
life, that we get used to everything. Two things, 
perhaps, retain their freshness more perdurably 
than the rest, — the return of spring, and the more 
poignant utterances of the poets. And here, I 
think, Wordsworth holds his own with the best. 
But Mr. Arnold's volume of selections from him 
suggests a question of some interest, for the Words- 
worth Society of special interest, — How much of 
his poetry is likely to be a permanent possession ? 
The answer to this question is involved in the an- 
swer to a question of wider bearing, — What are 
the conditions of permanence ? Immediate or con- 
temporaneous recognition is certainly not dominant 
among them, or Cowley would still be popular, — 


Cowley, to whom the Muse gave every gift but one, 
the gift of the unexpected and inevitable word. 
Nor can mere originality assure the interest of pos- 
terity, else why are Chaucer and Gray familiar, 
while Donne, one of the subtlest and most self- 
irradiating minds that ever sought an outlet in 
verse, is known only to the few ? Since Virgil there 
have been at most but four cosmopolitan authors, 
— Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Goethe. 
These have stood the supreme test of being trans- 
lated into all tongues, because the large humanity 
of their theme, and of their handling of it, needed 
translation into none. Calderon is a greater poet 
than Goethe, but' even in the most masterly trans- 
lation he retains still a Spanish accent, and is ac- 
cordingly interned (if I may Anglicize a French 
word) in that provincialism which we call nation- 

When one reads what has been written about 
Wordsworth, one cannot fail to be struck by the 
predominance of the personal equation in the esti- 
mate of his value, and when we consider his claim 
to universal recognition, it would not be wise to 
overlook the rare quality of the minds that he has 
most attracted and influenced. If the character of 
the constituency may be taken as the measure of 
the representative, there can be no doubt that, by 
his privilege of interesting the highest and purest 
order of intellect, Wordsworth must be set apart 
from the other poets, his contemporaries, if not 
above them. And yet we must qualify this praise 
by the admission that he continues to be insular j 


that he makes no conquests beyond the boundaries 
of his mother-tongue ; that, more than perhaps any 
other poet of equal endowment, he is great and 
surprising in passages and ejaculations. In these 
he truly 

'* Is happy as a lover, and attired 
In sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; " 

in these he loses himself, as Sir Thomas Browne 
would say, in an O, altitudo^ where his muse is in- 
deed a muse of fire, that can ascend, if not to the 
highest heaven of invention, yet to the supremest 
height of impersonal utterance. Then, like Elias 
the prophet, ^^ he stands up as fire, and his word 
bums like a lamp." But too often, when left to 
his own resources, and to the conscientious per- 
formance of the duty laid upon him to be a great 
poet quand rneme^ he seems diligently intent on 
producing fire by the primitive method of rubbing 
the dry sticks of his blank verse one against the 
other, while we stand in shivering expectation of 
the flame that never comes. In his truly inspired 
and inspiring passages it is remarkable also that 
he is most unlike his ordinary self, least in accord- 
ance with his own theories of the nature of poetic 
expression. When at his best, he startles and 
waylays as only genius can, but is furthest from 
that equanimity of conscious and constantly in- 
dwelling power that is the characteristic note of 
the greatest work. If Wordsworth be judged by 
the ex ungue leonem standard, by passages,. or by 
a dozen single poems, no one capable of forming 
an opinion would hesitate to pronounce him, not 


only a great poet, but among the greatest, con- 
vinced in the one case by the style, and in both by 
the force that radiates from him, by the stimulus 
he sends kindling through every fibre of the intel- 
lect and of the imagination. At the same time 
there is no admittedly great poet in placing whom 
we are forced to acknowledge so many limitations 
and to make so many concessions. 

Even as a teacher he is often too much of a ped- 
agogue, and is apt to forget that poetry instructs 
not by precept and inculcation, but by hints and 

(indirections and suggestions, by inducing a mood 
rather than by enforcing a principle or a moral. 
He sometimes impresses our fancy with the image 
of a schoolmaster whose class-room commands an 
unrivalled prospect of cloud and mountain, of all 
the pomp and prodigality of heaven and earth. 
From time to time he calls his pupils to the win- 
dow, and makes them see what, without the finer 
intuition of his eyes, they had never seen ; makes 
/ them feel what, without the sympathy of his more 
penetrating sentiment, they had never felt. It 
keems the revelation of a new heaven and a new 
earth, and to contain in itself its own justification. 
/Then suddenly recollecting his duty, he shuts the 
window, calls them back to their tasks, and is 
j equally well pleased and more discursive in en- 
I forcing on them the truth that the moral of all this 
J is that in order to be happy they must be virtuous. 
I If the total absence of any sense of humor had the 
*. advantage sometimes of making Wordsworth sub- 
limely unconscious, it quite as often made him so 
to his loss. 


' In his noblest utterances man is absent except 
as the antithesis that gives a sharper emphasis to 
nature. The greatest poets, I J^nk>^ha3Z£ JEound 
man more interesting than nature,_have considered 
na ture as no more than tte nece ssary sceneryTafr 
Lst icallv harmful if too p ompous or obtrusive, be- 
Fore which man acts his t ragi-comedv of life. This 
peculiarity of Wordsworth results naturally from 
the fact that he had no dramatic power, and of nar- 
rative power next to none. If he tell us a story, 
it is because it gives him the chance to tell us some- 
thing else, and to him of more importance. In 
Scott's narrative poems the scenery is accessary 
and subordinate. It is a picturesque backgi'ound 
to his figures, a landscape through which the action 
rushes like a torrent, catching a hint of color per- 
haps from rock or tree, but never any image so dis- 
tinct that it tempts us aside to reverie or medita- 
tion. With Wordsworth the personages are apt 
to be lost in the landscape, or kept waiting idly 
while the poet muses on its deeper suggestions. 
A^d^^he^aaino^ensejrf propgr^ instinct j^f 

yhnifift {^nd dispn'Tnination. All his thoughts and 

.^emotions and sensations are of equal value in his 
eyes because they are his, and he gives us methodi- 
..<3ally and conscientiously all he can, and not that 
^ only which he cannot help giving because it must 
and will be said. One might apply to him what 
Miss Skeggs said of Dr. Burdock, that " he seldom 
leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own 
amusement." There is no limit to his — let us call 
it f acundity. He was dimly conscious of this, and 


turned by a kind of instinct, I suspect, to the son* 
net, because its form forced boundaries upon him, 
and put him under bonds to hold his peace at the 
end of the fourteenth line. Yet even here nature 
would out, and the oft-recurring aarne subject con- 
tinued lures the nun from her cell to the convent 
parlor, and tempts the student to make a pulpit of 
his pensive citadel. The hour-glass is there, to be 
sure, with its lapsing admonition, but it reminds 
the preacher only that it can be turned. 

I have said that Wordsworth was insular, but, 
more than this, there is also something local, I 
might say parochial, in his choice of subject and 
tone of thought. I am not sure that what is called 
philosophical poetry ever appeals to more than a 
very limited circle of minds, though to them it ap- 
peals with an intimate power that makes them fa- 
natical in their preference. Perhaps none of those 
whom I have called imiversal poets (unless it be 
Dante) calls out this fanaticism, for they do not 
need it, fanaticism being a sure token either of 
,^weakness in numbers or of weakness in argument. 
\ The greatest poets interest the passions of men no 
less than their intelligence, and are more concerned 
/with the secondary than the primal sympathies, 
• with the concrete than with the abstract. 

But I have played the advocatus diaboli long 
enough. I come back to the main question from 
which I set out. Will Wordsworth survive, as 
Lucretius survives, through the splendor of certain 
sunbursts of imagination refusing for a passionate 
moment to be subdued by the unwilling material 


in which It is forced to work, while that material 
takes fire in the working as it can and will only in 
the hands of genius, as it cannot and will not, for 
example, in the hands of Dr. Akenside ? Is he to 
be known a century hence as the author of remark- 
able passages ? Certainly a great part of him will 
perish, not, as Ben Jonson said of Donne, for want 
of understanding, but because too easily under- 
stood. His teaching, whatever it was, is part of 
the air we breathe, and has lost that charm of ex- 
clusion and privilege that kindled and kept alive 
the zeal of his acolytes while it was still sectarian, 
or even heretical. But he has that surest safe- 
guard against oblivion, that imperishable incentive 
to curiosity and interest that belongs to all original 
minds. His finest utterances do not merely nestle 
in the ear by virtue of their music, but in the soul 
and life, by virtue of their meaning. One woul( 
be slow to say that his general outfit as poet was s( 
complete as that of Dryden, but that he habitually 
dwelt in a diviner air, and alone of modem poets] 
renewed and justified the earlier faith that mad< 
poet and prophet interchangeable terms. Surel; 
he was not an artist in the strictest sense of th( 
word ; neither was Isaiah ; but he had a rarer gifti 
the capability of being greatly inspired. Popular,] 
let us admit, he can never be ; but as in Catholic j' 
countries men go for a time into retreat from the 
importunate dissonances of life to collect their bel 
ter selves again by communion with things that are! 
heavenly, and therefore eternal, so this Chartreuse 
of Wordsworth, dedicated to the Genius of Soli- 


tude, wiU aUure to its imperturbable calm the finer 
natures and the more bighly tempered intellects of 
every generation, so long as man has any intuition 
of what is most sacred in his own emotions and 
sympathies, or of whatever in outward nature is 
most capable of awakening them and maldng them 
operative, whether to console or strengthen. And 
over the entrance-gate to that purifying seclusion 
shall be inscribed, — 

''Minds innocent and quiet take 
This for an hermitage." 




In every literature which can be in any sense 
called national there is a flavor of the soil from 
which it sprang, in which it grew, and from which 
its roots drew nourishment. This flavor, at first, 
perhaps, the cause of distaste, gives a peculiar relish 
when we have once learned to like it. It is a limi- 
tation, no doubt, and when artificially conmnmi- 
cated, or in excess, incurs the reproach of provin- 
cialism, just as there are certain national dishes 
that are repugnant to every foreign palate. But 
it has the advantage of giving even to second-class 
writers in a foreign language that strangeness 
which in our own tongue is possible only to origi- 
nality either of thought or style. When this savor 
of nationality is combined with original genius, as 
in such a writer as Calderon, for example, the 
charm is incalculably heightened. 

Spanish literature, if it have nothing that for 
height and depth can be compared with the " Di- 
vina Commedia " of Dante (as indeed what other 
modern literature has ?), is rich in works that will 
repay study, and evolved itself by natural processes 
out of the native genius, the history, and the min- 


gled races of the country more evidently, perhaps, 
than that of any other modem people. It was of 
course more or less modified from time to time by 
foreign, especially by French, influences in its ear- 
lier period, by Italian in the sixteenth century, and 
in later times again by French and German in- 
fluences more or less plainly marked, but through 
all and in spite of all, by virtue of the vigor of its 
native impulse, it has given an essentially Spanish 
character to all its productions. Its earliest mon- 
ument, the " Song of the Cid," is in form a repro- 
duction of the French '' Chanson de Geste," a song 
of action or of what has been acted, but the spirit 
which animates it is very different from that which 
animates the " Song of Roland," its nearest French 
parallel in subject and form. The Spanish Ro- 
mances, very much misrepresented in the spirited 
and facile reproductions of Lockhart, are beyond 
question the most original and fascinating popular 
poetry of which we know anything. Their influ- 
ence upon the form of Heine's verse is unmistaka- 
ble. In the Drama, also, Spain has been especially 
abundant and inventive. She has supplied all 
Europe with plots, and has produced at least one 
dramatist who takes natural rank with the greatest 
in any language by his depth of imagination and 
fertility of resource. For fascination of style and 
profound suggestion, it would be hard to name an- 
other author superior to Calderon, if indeed equal 
to him. His charm was equally felt by two minds 
as unlike each other as those of Goethe and Shel- 
ley. These in themselves are sufficient achieve- 


ments, and the intellectual life of a nation could 
maintain itself on the unearned increment of these 
without further addition to its resources. But 
Spain has also had the good fortune to produce 
one book which by the happiness of its conception, 
by the variety of its invention, and the charm of 
its style, has been adopted into the literature of 
mankind, and has occupied a place in their affec- 
tion to which few other books have been admitted* 

Wei have no word in English so comprehensive 
as the Dichtwig of the Germans, which includes 
every exercise of the creative faculty, whether in 
the line of pathos or humor, whether in the higher 
region of imagination or on the lower levels of 
fancy where the average man draws easier breath. 
It is about a work whose scene lies on this inferior 
plane, but whose vividness of intuition and breadth 
of treatment rank it among the highest achieve- 
ments of imaginative literature, that I shall say a 
few words this evening, and I trust that I shall see 
nothing in it that in the author's intention, at least, 
is not honestly to be found there ; certainly that I 
shall not pretend to see anything which others have 
professed to discover there, but to which nature 
has made me color-blind. 

I ask your attention not to an essay on " Don 
Quixote," still less to an essay on Cervantes, but 
rather to a few illustrative comments on his one 
immortal book (drawn almost wholly from notes 
written on its margin in repeated readings), which 
may tend to throw a stronger light on what I shall 
not scruple to call its incomparable originality both 


as a conception and a study of character. It is 
one of the few books that can lay nndisputed claim 
to tiie distinction of being tmiveLl and cosmopoK- 
tan, equally at home in all languages and welcome 
to all kindreds and conditions of men; a human 
book in the fullest sense of the word; a kindly 
book, whether we take that adjective in its original 
meaning of natural^ or in its present acceptation, 
which would seem to imply that at some time or 
other, not too precisely specified in history, to be 
kindly and to be natural had been equivalent 
terms. I can think of no book so thoroughly good- 
natured and good-humored ; and this is the more 
remarkable because it shows that the optimism of 
its author had survived more misfortune and disen- 
chantment than have fallen to the lot of many men, 
even the least successful. I suspect that Cer- 
vantes, with his varied experience, maimed at the 
battle of Lepanto, a captive in Algiers, pinched 
with poverty all his life, and writing his great 
book in a debtor's prison, might have formed as 
just an estimate of the vanity of vanities as the 
author of the Book of Ecclesiastes. But the no- 
tion of Weltschmerz^ or the misery of living and 
acting in this beautiful world, seems never to have 
occurred to him, or, if it did, never to have embit- 
tered him. Had anybody suggested the thought 
to him, he would probably have answered, " Well, 
perhaps it is not the best of all possible worlds, 
but it is the best we have, or are likely to get in 
my time. Had I been present at its creation, I 
might, perhaps, as Alfonso the Learned thought h€ 


might, have given some useful advice for its im- 
provement, and, were I consulted even now, could 
suggest some amendments in my own condition 
therein. But after all, it is not a bad world, as 
worlds go, and the wisest plan, if the luck go 
against us, is to foUow the advice of Durandarte 
in the Cave of Montesinos, ' Patience, and shuffle 
the cards.' A new deal may give us better hands." 
His sense of humor kept his nature sweet and 
fresh, and made him capable of seeing that there 
are two sides to every question, even to a question 
in which his own personal interest was directly 
involved. In his dedication of the Second Part of 
" Don Quixote " to the Conde de Lemos, written 
in old age and infirmity, he smiles cheerfully on 
Poverty as on an old friend and lifelong compan- 
ion. St. Francis could not have looked with more 
benignity on her whom he chose, as Dante tells 
us, for his bride. 

I have called "Don Quixote" a cosmopolitan 
book, and I know of none other that can compete 
with it in this respect unless it be " Robinson Cru- 
soe." But " Don Quixote," if less verisimilar as a 
narrative, and I am not sure that it is, appeals to 
far higher qualities of mind and demands a far 
subtler sense of appreciation than the masterpiece 
of Defoe. If the latter represent in simplest prose 
what interests us because it might happen to any 
man, the other, while seeming never to leave the 
low level of fact and possibility, constantly suggests 
the loftier region of symbol, and sets before us 
that eternal contrast between the ideal and the 


real, between the world as it might be and the 
world as it is, between the fervid completeness of 
conception and the chill inadequacy of fulfilment, 
which life sooner or later, directly or indirectly, 
forces upon the consciousness of every man who is 
more than a patent digester. There is a moral in 
" Don Quixote," and a very profound one, whether 
Cervantes consciously put it there or not, and it is 
this: that whoever quarrels with the Nature of 
y- Things, wittingly or unwittingly, is certain to get 
the worst of it. The great difficulty lies in finding 
out what the Nature of Things really and perdura- 
bly is, and the great wisdom, after we have made 
this discovery, or persuaded ourselves that we have 
made it, is in accommodating our lives and actions 
to it as best we may or can. And yet, though all 
this be true, there is another and deeper moral in 
the book than this. The pathos which imderlies its 
seemingly farcical turmoil,^ the tears which some- 
times tremble under our lids after its most poign- 
ant touches of humor, the sympathy with its hero 
which survives all his most ludicrous defeats and 
humiliations and is only deepened by them, the 
feeling that he is after all the one noble and heroic 
figure in a world incapable of comprehending him, 

^ I can think of no better instance to show how thin is the 
partition that divides humor from pathos than the lustration of the 
two vulgar Laises (distraidas mozas) by the pure imagination of 
Don Quixote (Part. Prim. cap. ii.). The sentiment is more natu- 
ral and truer than that which Victor Hugo puts into the month of 
Marion Delorme when she tells her lover that '^ his love has g^ven 
her back her maidenhood/' To him it might, but it would xather 
have reproached her with the loss of it. 


and to whose inhabitauts he is distorted and cari- 
catured by the crooked panes in those windows of 
custom and convention through which they see 
him, all this seems to hint that only he who has 
the imagination to conceive and the courage to 
attempt a trial of strength with what foists itself 
on our senses as the Order of Nature for the time 
being, can achieve great results or kindle the co- 
operative and efficient enthusiasm of his fellowmen. 
The Don Quixote of one generation may live to hear 
himself called the savior of society by the next. 
How exalted was Don Quixote's own conception of 
his mission is clear from what is said of his first 
sight of the inn,^ that ^^ it was as if he had seen a 
star which guided him not to the portals, but to the 
fortress of his redemption," where the allusion were 
too daring were he not persuaded that he is going 
forth to redeem the world. Cervantes, of course, is 
not so much speaking in his own person, as telling 
what passed in the mind of his hero. But he would 
not have ventured such an allusion in jest. 

Am I forcing upon Cervantes a meaning alien 
to the purpose of his story and anachronistic to the 
age in which he lived ? I do not think so, and if I 
err I do so in good company. I admit that there 
is a kind of what is called constructive criticism, 
which is sometimes pushed so far beyond its proper 
limits as to deserve rather the name of destructive, 
as sometimes, in the so-called restoration of an an- 
cient building, the materials of the original architect 
are used in the erection of a new edifice of which he 

^ Part. Prim. cap. iii. 




had never dreamed, or, if he had dreamed of it, 
would have fancied himself the victim of some hor- 
rible nightmare. I would not willingly lay myself 
open to the imputation of applying this method to 
Cervantes, and attribute to him a depth of intention 
which, could he be asked about it, would call up in 
his eyes the meditative smile that must habitually 
have flickered there. Spaniards have not been 
wanting who protested against what they consider 
to be the German fashion of interpreting their na- 
tional author. Don Juan Valera, in particular, one 
of the best of contemporary Spanish men of letters, 
both as critic and novelist, has argued the negative 
side of the question with force and acumen in a 
discourse pronounced on his admission to the Span- 
ish Academy. But I must confess that, while he 
interested, he did not convince me. I could quite 
understand his impatience at what he considered 
the supersubtleties of interpretation to which our 
Teutonic cousins, who have taught us so much, are 
certainly somewhat prone. We have felt it our- 
selves when the obvious meaning of Shakespeare 
has been rewritten into Hegelese, by some Doctor 
of Philosophy desperate with the task of saying 
something when everything had been already said, 
and eager to apply his new theory of fog as an 
illuminating medium. But I do not think that 
transcendental criticism can be charged with indis- 
cretion in the case of " Don Quixote." After read- 
ing all that can be said against the justice of its 
deductions, or divinations if you choose to call 
them so, I am inclined to say, as Turner did to the 


lady who, after looking at one of his pictures, de- 
clared that she could not see all this in nature, 
" Madam, don't you wish to heaven you could ? " 
I believe that in all really great imaginative work 
we are aware, as in nature, of something far more 
deeply interfused with our consciousness, under- 
lying the obvious and familiar, as the living spirit 
of them, and accessible only to a heightened sense 
and a more passionate sympathy. He reads most 
wisely who thinks everything into a book that 
it is capable of holding, and it is the stamp and 
token of a great book so to incorporate itself with 
our own being, so to quicken our insight and stim- 
ulate our thought, as to make us feel as if we 
helped to create it while we read. Whatever we 
can find in a book that aids us in the conduct of 
life, or to a truer interpretation of it, or to a franker 
reconcilement with it, we may with a good con- 
science believe is not there by accident, but thai 
the author meant that we should find it there* 
Cervantes certainly intended something of fai 
wider scope than a mere parody on the Romances 
of Chivalry, which before his day had ceased to 
have any vitality as motives of human conduct, or 
even as pictures of a life that anybody believed to 
have ever existed except in dreamland. That he 
did intend his book as a good-humored criticism on 
doctrinaire reformers who insist, in spite of all his- 
tory and experience, on believing that society is 
a device of human wit or an imposture of himian 
cunning, and not a growth, an evolution from nat- 
ural causes, is clear enough in more than one pas- 


sage to the thoughtful reader. It is also a satire 
on all attempts to remake the world by the means 
and methods of the past, and on the humanity of 
impulse which looks on each fact that rouses its 
pity or its sense of wrong as if it was or could be 
complete in itself, and were not indissolubly bound 
up with myriads of other facts both in the past 
and the present. When we say that we are all of 
us the result of the entire past, we perhaps are not 
paying the past a very high compliment ; but it is 
no less true that whatever happens is in some 
sense, more or less strict, the result of all that has 
happened before. As with all men of heated im- 
aginations, a near object of compassion occupies 
the whole mind of Don Quixote ; the figure of the 
present sufferer looms gigantic and shuts out all 
perception of remoter and more general considera- 
tions. Don Quixote's quarrel is with the structure 
of society, and it is only by degrees, through much 
mistake and consequent suffering, that he finds out 
how strong that structure is ; nay, how strong it 
must be in order that the world may go smoothly 
and the course of events not be broken by a series 
of cataclysms. The French Revolutionists with the 
sincerest good intentions set about reforming in 
Don Quixote's style, and France has been in com- 
motion ever since. They carefully grubbed up 
every root that drew its sustenance from the past, 
and have been finding out ever since to theii* sor- 
row that nothing with roots can be made to order. 
" Do right though the heavens fall " is an admira- 
ble precept so long as the heavens do not take you 


at your word and come down about your ears — 
still worse about those of your neighbors. It is a 
rule rather of private than public obligation — for 
indeed it is the doing of right that keeps the hea- 
vens from falling. After Don Quixote's temporary 
rescue of the boy Andres from his master's beating, 
the manner in which he rides off and discharges his 
mind of consequences is especially characteristic of 
reform by theory without study of circumstances. 
It is a profound stroke of humor that the reformer 
Don Quixote should caution Sancho not to attempt 
making the world over again, and to adapt himself 
to things as he finds them. 

In one of his adventures, it is in perfect keeping 
that he should call on all the world to stop " till 
he was satisfied." It is to be noted that in both 
Dop Quixote's attempts at the redress of particular 
wrong (Andres and the galley-slaves) the objects 
(I might call them victims) of his benevolence 
come back again to his discomfiture. In the case of 
Andres, Don Quixote can only blush, but Sancho 
(the practical man without theories) gives the poor 
fellow a hunch of bread and a few pennies, which 
are very much to the purpose. Cervantes gives us 
a plain hint here that all our mistakes sooner or 
later surely come home to roost. It is remarka- 
ble how independent of time and circumstance the 
satire of the great humorists always is. Aristoph- 
anes, Rabelais, Shakespeare, Moliere, seem to fur- 
nish side-lights to what we read in our morning 
paper. As another instance of this in Cervantes, 
who is continually illustrating it, read the whole 



scene of the liberation of the galley-slaves. How 
perfectly does it fit those humanitarians who can- 
not see the crime because the person of the crimi- 
nal comes between them and it ! That Cervantes 
knew perfectly well what he was about in his satire 
and saw beneath the surface of things is shown by 
the apparition of the police and of the landlord 
with the bill in his hand, for it was these that 
brought the Good Old Times to their forlorn Hie 

Coleridge, who in reach and range of intelli- 
gence, in penetration of insight, and in compre- 
hensiveness of sympathy ranks among the first of 
critics, says, ^^ Don Quixote is not a man out of his 
senses, but a man in whom the imagination and 
the pure reason are so powerful as to make him 
disregard the evidence of sense when it opposed 
their conclusions. Sancho is the common sense of 
the social man-animal unenlightened and unsanc- 
tified by the reason. You see how he reverences 
his master at the very time he is cheating him." 
W. S. Landor thought that Coleridge took the hint 
for this enlargement of the scope of the book from 
him, but if I remember rightly it was Bouterwek 
who first pointed criticism in the right direction. 
Down to his time "Don Quixote" had been re- 
garded as a burlesque, a farcical satire on the Ro- 
mances of Chivalry, just as Shylock was so long 
considered a character of low comedv. 

But " Don Quixote," whatever its deeper mean- 
ings may be, has a literary importance almost 
without parallel, and it is time that we should con- 


aider it briefly. It would be hard to find a 
more purely original and without precedent. Cer- 
vantes himself says in the preface to the First 
Part that he knows not what book he is following 
in it. Indeed, he foUows none, though we find 
traces of his having read the " Golden Ass " and 
the Greek Romances. It was the first time that 
characters had been drawn from real life with such 
nicety and discrimination of touch, with such mi- 
nuteness in particulars, and yet with such careful 
elimination of whatever was unessential that the 
personages are idealized to a proper artistic dis- 
tance from mere actuality. With all this, how 
perfectly life-like they are ! As Don Quixote tells 
us that he was almost ready to say he had seen 
Amadis, and proceeds to describe his personal 
appearance minutely, so we could affirm of the 
Knight of La Mancha and his Squire. They are 
real not because they are portraits, not because 
they are drawn from actual personages, but rather 
because of their very abstraction and generalization. 
They are not so much taken from life as informed 
with it. They are conceptions, not copies from 
any model; creations as no other characters but 
those of Shakespeare are in so full and adequate a 
manner ; developed out of a seminal idea like the 
rrfiatlireff ^^ nflitur^i Tiot' the matfer-6l!-fkct workj of 
Tfc A <)tnnti vr'g jTii trlrf 111 n rni jrnH n ^^T^fj) quick eye 
and a faithful memory, but the true c Mldre n of 
the imaginative faculty from which all the dregs of 
observation and memory Eave ISeen distillfid 'aw av,^ 
leaving only what is elementary andHoniversal. I 


confess that in the productions of what is called 
the realistic school I too often find myself in com- 
pany that is little to my taste, dragged back into 
a commonplace world from which 1 was only too 
glad to escape, and set to grind in the prison- 
house of the Philistines. I walk about in a night- 
mare, the supreme horror of which is that my coat 
is all buttonholes for bores to thrust their fingers 
through and bait me to their heart's content. 
Give me the writers who take me for a while out 
of myself and (with pardon be it spoken) away 
from my neighbors I I do not ask that characters 
should be real ; I need but go into the street to 
find such in abundance. I ask only that they 
should be possible, that they should be typical, be- 
cause these I find in myself, and with these can 
sympathize. Hector and Achilles, Clytemnestra 
and Antigone, Koland and Oliver, Macbeth and 
Lear, move about, if not in worlds not realized, at 
least in worlds not realized to any eye but that of 
imagination, a world far from the police reports, a 
world into which it is a privilege, I might almost 
call it an achievement, to enter. Don Quixote and 
his Squire are inhabitants of this world, in spite of 
the prosaic and often vulgar stage on which their 
tragi-comedy is acted, because they are symbolical, 
because they represent the two great factors of 
human character and springs of human action — 
the Imagination and the Understanding. If you 
would convince yourself how true this is, compare 
them with Sir Hudibras and Ealpho — or still 
better with Roderick Eandom and Strap. There 


can be no better proof that Cervantes meant to 
contrast the ideal with the matter of fact in the 
two characters than his setting side by side images 
of the same woman as reflected in the eyes of 
Sancho and of his master ; in other words, as seen 
by common-sense and by passion.^ 

I shall not trouble you with any labored analysis 
of humor. If you wish to know what humor is, I 
should say read "Don Quixote." It is the element 
in which the whole story lives and moves and has 
its being, and it wakens and flashes round the 
course of the narrative like a phosphorescent sea 
in the track of a ship. It is nowhere absent ; it is 
nowhere obtrusive ; it lightens and plays about the 
surface for a moment and is gone. It is every- 
where by suggestion, it is nowhere with emphasis 
and insistence. There is infinite variety, yet always 
in harmony with the characters and the purpose of 
the fable. The impression it produces is cumula- 
tive, not sudden or startling. It is unobtrusive as 
the tone of good conversation. I am not speaking 
of the fun of the book, of which there is plenty, 
and sometimes boisterous enough, but of that 
deeper and more delicate quality, suggestive of 
remote analogies and essential incongruities, which 
alone deserves the name of humor. 

This quality is so diffused in " Don Quixote," so 
thoroughly permeates every pore and fibre of the 
book, that it is difficult to exemplify it by citatiouc 
Take as examples the scene with the goatherds, 
where Don Quixote, after having amply supped, 

^ Part Prim. cap. z., 


discourses so eloquently of that Golden Age whioh 
was happy in having nothing to eat but acorns or 
to drink but water; where, while insisting that 
Sancho should assume equality as a man, he denies 
it to him as Sancho, by reminding him that it is 
granted by one who is his natural lord and master, 
— there is such a difference, alas, between univer- 
sal and particular Brotherhood I Take the debate 
i of Don Quixote (already mad) as to what form of 
madness he should assume ; the quarrel of the two 
madmen, Don Quixote and Cardenio, about the 
good fame of Queen Madasima, a purely imagi- 
nary being ; the resolution of Don Quixote, when 
forced to renounce knight-errantry, that he will 
become a shepherd of the kind known to poets, 
thus exchanging one unreality for another. Nay, 
take the whole book, if you would learn what 
humor is, whether in its most obvious or its most 
subtle manifestations. The highest and most com- 
plete illustration is the principal character of the 
story. I do not believe that a character so abso- 
lutely perfect in conception and delineation, so 
psychologically true, so full of whimsical inconsis- 
tencies, all combining to produce an impression of 
perfect coherence, is to be found in fiction. He 
was a monomaniac,^ all of whose faculties, his very 
senses themselves, are subjected by one overmas- 
tering prepossession, and at last conspire with it, 
almost against their will, in spite of daily disillu- 
sion and of the uniform testimony of facts and 

^ That Cervantes had made a study of madness is evident from 
the Introduction to the Second Part. 


events to the contrary. The key to Don Quixote's 
character is given in the first chapter where he is 
piecing out his imperfect helmet with a new visor. 
He makes one of pasteboard, and then, testing it 
with his sword, shatters it to pieces. He proceeds 
to make another strengthened with strips of iron, 
and " without caring to make a further trial of it, 
commissioned and held it for the finest possible 
visor." Don Quixote always sees what he wishes 
to see, and yet always sees things as they are unless 
the necessities of his hallucination compel him to 
see them otherwise, and it is wonderful with what 
ingenuity he makes everything bend to those ne- 
cessities. Cervantes calls him the sanest madman 
and the maddest reasonable man in the world. 
Sancho says that he was fitter to be preacher than 
knight-errant. He makes facts curtsy to his pre- 
possessions. At the same time, with exact truth 
to nature, he is never perfectly convinced himself 
except in moments of exaltation, and when the bee 
in his bonnet buzzes so loudly as to prevent his 
hearing the voice of reason. Cervantes takes care 
to tell us that he was never convinced that he was 
really a knight-errant till his ceremonious recep- 
tion at the castle of the Duke. 

Sancho, on the other hand, sees everything in 
the dry light of common sense, except when be- 
guiled by cupidity or under the immediate spell of 
his master's imagination. Grant the imagination 
its premises, and its logic is irresistible. Don 
Quixote always takes these premises for granted, 
and Sancho, despite his nafural shrewdness, is more 


than half tempted to admit them, or at any rate to 
run the risk of their being sound, partly out of ha- 
bitual respect for his master's superior rank and 
knowledge, partly on the chance of the reward 
which his master perpetually dangled before, him. 
This reward was that island of which Don Quixote 
confesses he cannot tell the name because it is not 
down on any map. With delightful humor, it be- 
gins as some island, then becomes the island, and 
then one of those islands. And how much more 
probable does this vagueness render the fulfilment 
of the promise than if Don Quixote had locked 
himself up in a specific one ! A line of retreat is 
thus always kept open, while Sancho's eagerness is 
held at bay by this seemingly chance suggestion 
of a choice in these hypothetical lordships. This 
vague potentiality of islands eludes the thrust of 
any definite objection. And when Sancho is in- 
clined to grumble, his master consoles him by say- 
ing, " I have already told thee, Sancho, to give thy- 
self no care about it ; for even should the island 
fail us, there are the kingdoms of Dinamarca and 
Sobradisa that would fit you as the ring fits the 
finger, and since they are on terra firma^ you 
should rejoice the more." As if these were more 
easily to be come at, though all his terra firma was 
in dreamland too. It should seem that Sancho was 
too shrewd for such a bait, and that here at least 
was an exception to that probability for which 
I have praised the story. But I think it rather 
a justification of it. We must remember how 
near the epoch of the story was to that of the Con^ 


quistadores^ when men's fancies were still glowing 
with the splendid potentialities of adventure. And 
when Don Quixote suggests the possibility of cre- 
ating Sancho a marquis, it is remarkable that he 
mentions the title conferred upon Cortes. The con- 
science of Don Quixote is in loyalty to his ideal ; 
he prizes desert as an inalienable possession of the 
soul. The conscience of Sancho is in the eyes of 
his neighbors, and he values repute for its worldly 
advantages. When Sancho tries to divert his mas- 
ter from the adventure of the Fulling Mills by ar- 
guing that it was night, and that none could see 
them, so that they might well turn out of the way 
to avoid the danger, and begs him rather to take 
a little sleep, Don Quixote answers indignantly : 
" Sleep thou, who wast born for sleep. As for me, 
I shall do whatever I see to be most becoming to 
my profession." With equal truth to nature in 
both cases, Sancho is represented as inclined to be- 
lieve the extravagant delusions of his master be- 
cause he has seen and known him all his life, while 
he obstinately refuses to believe that a barber's 
basin is the helmet of Mambrino because he sees 
and knows that it is a basin. Don Quixote says 
of him to the Duke, " He doubts everything and 
believes everything." Cervantes was too great an 
artist to make him wholly vulgar and greedy and 
selBsh, though he makes him all these. He is 
witty, wise according to his lights, affectionate, and 
faithful. When he takes leave of his imaginary 
governorship he is not without a certain manly 
dignity that is almost pathetic. 


The ingenuity of the story, the probability of its 
adventures, the unwearied fecundity of invention 
shown in devising and interlacing them, in giving 
variety to a single theme and to a plot so perfectly 
simple in its conception, are all wonderful. The 
narrative flows on as if unconsciously, and our fan- 
cies are floated along upon it. It is noticeable, too, 
in passing, what a hypaethral story it is, how much 
of it passes in the open air, how the sun shines, the 
birds sing, the brooks dance, and the leaves mur- 
mur in it. This is peculiarly touching when we 
recollect that it was written in prison. In the First 
Part Cervantes made the mistake (as he himself 
afterwards practically admits) of introducing un- 
profitable digressions, and in respect to the propri- 
ety and congruousness of the adventures which be- 
fall Don Quixote I must also make one exception. 
I mean the practical jokes played upon him at the 
Duke's castle, in which his delusion is forced upon 
him instead of adapting circumstances to itself or 
itself to circumstances, according to the necessity 
of the occasion. These tend to degrade him in the 
eyes of the reader, who resents rather than enjoys 
them, and feels the essential vulgarity of his tor- 
mentors through all their fine clothes. It is quite 
otherwise wdth the cheats put upon Sancho, for we 
feel that either he will be shrewd enough to be 
more than even with the framers of them, or that 
he is of too coarse a fibre to feel them keenly. But 
Don Quixote is a gentleman and a monomaniac, — 
qualities, the one of which renders such rudeness 
incongruous, and the other unfeeling. He is, more- 


over, a guest. It is curious that Shakespeare 
makes the same mistake with Falstaff in the 
"Merry Wives of Windsor," and Fielding with 
Parson Adams, and in both cases to our discomfort. 
The late Mr. Edward Fitzgerald (iquis desiderio sit 
pudor aut modus tarn cari cajntis .0 preferred the 
Second Part to the First, and, but for these scenes, 
which always pain and anger me, I should agree 
with him. For it is plain that Cervantes became 
slowly conscious as he went on how rich was the 
vein he had hit upon, how full of various and pro- 
found suggestion were the two characters he had 
conceived and who together make a complete man. 
No doubt he at first proposed to himself a parody 
of the Romances of Chivalry, but his genius soon 
broke away from the leading-strings of a plot that 
denied free scope to his deeper conception of life 
and men. 

Cervantes is the father of the modern novel, in 
so far as it has become a study and delineation of 
character instead of being a narrative seeking to 
interest by situation and incident. He has also 
more or less directly given impulse and direction 
to all humoristic literature since his time. We see 
traces of him in Moliere, in Swift, and still more 
clearly in Sterne and Richter. Fielding assimi- 
lated and Smollett copied him. Scott was his dis- 
ciple in the " Antiquary," that most delightful of 
his delightful novels. Irving imitated him in his 
" Knickerbocker," and Dickens in his " Pickwick 
Papers." I do not mention this as detracting from 
their originality, but only as showing the wonderful 


virility of his. The pedigrees of books are as in* 
teresting and instructive as those of men. It is 
also good for us to remember that thi^ man whose 
life was outwardly a failure restored to Spain the 
universal empire she had lost. 



It seems an odd anomaly that, while respect for 
age and deference to its opinions have diminished 
and are still sensibly diminishing among us, the 
relish of antiquity should be more pungent and 
the value set upon things merely because they are 
old should be greater in America than anywhere 
else. It is merely a sentimental relish, for ours is 
a new country in more senses than one, and, like 
children when they are fancying themselves this or 
that, we have to play very hard in order to believe 
that we are old. But we like the game none the 
worse, and midtiply our anniversaries with honest 
zeal, as if we increased our centuries by the num- 
ber of events we could congratulate on having hap- 
pened a hundred years ago. There is something 
of instinct in this, and it is a wholesome instinct if 
it serve to quicken our consciousness of the forces 
that are gathered by duration and continuity ; if 
it teach us that, ride fast and far as we may, we 
carry the Past on our crupper, as immovably seated 
there as the black Care of the Roman poet. The 


generations of men are braided inextricably to- 
gether, and the very trick of our gait may be count- 
less generations older than we. 

I have sometimes wondered whether, as the faith 
of men in a future existence grew less confident, 
they might not be seeking some equivalent in the 
feeling of a retrospective duration, if not their 
own, at least that of their race. Yet even this con- 
tinuance is trifling and ephemeral. If the tablets 
unearthed and deciphered by Geology have forced 
us to push back incalculably the birthday of man, 
they have in like proportion impoverished his re- 
corded annals, making even the Platonic year but 
as a single grain of the sand in Time's hour-glass, 
and the inscriptions of Egypt and Assyria modem 
as yesterday's newspaper. Fancy flutters over 
these vague wastes like a butterfly blown out to 
sea, and finds no foothold. It is true that, if we 
may put as much faith in heredity as seems reason- 
able to many of us, we are all in some transcen- 
dental sense the coevals of primitive man, and 
Pythagoras may well have been present in Euphop- 
bus at the siege of Troy. Had Shakespeare's 
thought taken this turn when he said to Time — 

" Thy pyramids built up with newer might 
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; 
They are but dressings of a former sight " ? 

But this imputed and vicarious longevity, though 
it may be obscurely operative in our lives and for- 
tunes, is no valid offset for the shortness of oup 
days, nor widens by a hair's breadth the horizon of 
our memories. Man and his monuments are of 


yesterday, and we, however we may play with our 
fancies, must content ourselves with being young. 
If youth be a defect, it is one that we outgrow only 
too soon. 

Mr. Ruskin said the other day that he could not 
live in a country that had neither castles nor cathe- 
drals, and doubtless men of imaginative temper 
find not only charm but inspiration in structures 
which Nature has adopted as her foster-children, 
and on which Time has laid his hand only in bene- 
diction. It is not their antiquity, but its associa- 
tion with man, that endows them with such sen- 
sitizing potency. Even the landscape sometimes 
bewitches us by this glamour of a human past, and 
the green pastures and golden slopes of England 
are sweeter both to the outward and to the inward 
eye that the hand of man has immemorially cared 
for and caressed them. The nightingale sings with 
more prevailing passion in Greece that we first 
heard her from the thickets of a Euripidean chorus. 
For myself, I never felt the working of this spell 
so acutely as in those gray seclusions of the college 
quadrangles and cloisters at Oxford and Cam- 
bridge, conscious with venerable associations, and 
whose very stones seemed happier for being there. 
The chapel pavement still whispered with the 
blessed feet of that long procession of saints and 
sages and scholars and poets, who are all gone into 
a world of light, but whose memories seem to con- 
secrate the soul from all ignobler companionship. 

Are we to suppose that these memories were less 
dear and gracious to the Puritan scholars, at whose 


instigation this college was founded, than to that 
other Puritan who sang the dim religious light, the 
long-drawn aisles and fretted vaults, which these 
memories recalled? Doubtless all these things 
were present to their minds, but they were ready to 
forego them all for the sake of that truth whereof, 
as Milton says of himself, they were members in- 
corporate. The pitiful contrast which they must 
have felt between the carven sanctuaries of learning 
they had left behind and the wattled fold they were 
rearing here on the edge of the wCderness is to me 
more than tenderly — it is almost sublimely — pa- 
thetic. When I think of their unpliable strength 
of purpose, their fidelity to their ideal, their faith 
in God and in themselves, I am inclined to say 
with Donne that 

'* We are scarce our fathers' sliadows cast at noon.^ 

Our past is well-nigh desolate of aesthetic stimu- 
lus. We have none or next to none of these aids 
to the imagination, of these coigns of vantage for 
the tendrils of memory or affection. Not one of 
our older buildings is venerable, or will ever be- 
come so. Time refuses to console them. They all 
look as if they meant business, and nothing more. 
And it is precisely because this College meant busi- 
ness, business of the gravest import, and did that 
business as thoroughly as it might with no means 
that were not niggardly except an abundant pur- 
pose to do its best, — it is precisely for this that we 
have gathered here to-day. We come back hither 
from the experiences of a richer life, as the son who 


has prospered returns to the household of his 
youth, to find in its very homeliness a pidse, if not 
of deeper, certainly of fonder, emotion than any 
splendor coidd stir. " Dear old Mother," we say, 
" how charming you are in your plain cap and the 
drab silk that has been turned again since we saw 
you I You were constantly forced to remind us 
that" you could not afford to give us this and that 
which some other boys had, but your discipline and 
diet were wholesome, and you sent us forth into the 
world with the sound constitutions and healthy ap- 
petites that are bred of simple fare." 

It is good for us to commemorate this homespun 
past of ours ; good, in these days of a reckless and 
swaggering prosperity, to remind ourselves how 
poor our fathers were, and that we celebrate them 
because for themselves and their children they 
chose wisdom and understanding and the things that 
are of God rather than any other riches. This is 
our Founders' Day, and we are come together to 
do honor to them all : first, to the Commonwealth 
which laid our corner-stone ; next, to the gentle 
and godly youth from whom we took our name, — 
himself scarce more than a name, — and with them 
to the countless throng of benefactors, rich and 
poor, who have built us up to what we are. We 
cannot do it better than in the familiar words : 
" Let us now praise famous men and our fathers 
that begat us. The Lord hath wrought great glory 
by them through his great power from the begin- 
ning. Leaders of the people by their counsels, 
and, by their knowledge of learning, meet for the 


people ; wise and eloquent in their instructions. 
There be of them that have left a name behind 
them that their praises might be reported. And 
some there be which have no memorial, who are 
perished as though they had never been. But these 
were merciful men whose righteousness hath not 
been forgotten. With their seed shall continually 
remain a good inheritance. Their seed standeth 
fast, and their children for their sakes." 

This two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of our 
College is not remarkable as commemorating any 
memorable length of days. There is hardly a coun- 
try in Europe but can show us universities that 
were older than ours now is when ours was but a 
grammar-school, with Eaton as master. Bologna, 
Paris, Oxford, were already famous schools when 
Dante visited them, as I love to think he did, six 
hundred years ago. We are ancient, it is true, on 
our own continent, ancient even as compared with 
several German universities more renowned than 
we. But it is not primarily the longevity of our 
Alma Mater upon which we are gathered here 
to congratulate her and each other. Kant says 
somewhere that, as the records of human trans- 
actions accumulate, the memory of man will have 
room only for those of supreme cosmopolitical im- 
portance. Can we claim for the birthday we are 
keeping a significance of so wide a bearing and 
so long a reach ? If we may not do that, we may 
at least afiirm confidently that the event it records 
and emphasizes is second in real import to none 
that has happened in this western hemisphere. 


The material growth of the colonies would have 
brought about their political separation from the 
Motlier Country in the fulness of tune, without that 
stain of blood which unhappily keeps its own mem- 
ory green so long. But the founding of the first 
English college here was what saved New Eng^ 
land from becoming a mere geographical expres- 
sion. It did more, for it insured, and I believe 
was meant to insure, our intellectual independence 
of the Old World. That independence has been 
long in coming, but it will come at last ; and are 
not the names of the chiefest of those who have 
hastened its coming written on the roll of Harvard 
College ? 

I think this foundation of ours a quite unex- 
ampled thing. Surely never were the bases of such 
a structure as this has become, and was meant 
to be, laid by a community of men so poor, in 
circumstances so unprecedented, and under what 
seemed such sullen and averted stars. The colony, 
still insignificant, was in danger of an Indian war, 
was in the throes of that Antinomian controversy 
which threatened its very existence, yet the leaders 
of opinion on both sides were united in the resolve 
that sound learning and an educated clergy should 
never cease from among them or their descendants 
in the commonwealth they were building up. In 
the midst of such fears and such tumults Harvard 
College was born, and not Marina herself had a 
more blusterous birth or a more chiding nativity. 
The prevision of those men must have been as clear 
as their faith was steadfast. Well they knew and 


had laid to heart the wise man's precept, ^^ Take 
fast hold of instruction ; let her not go ; for she is 
thy Ufe." 

There can be little question that the action of 
the Greneral Coui*t received its impulse and direc- 
tion from the clergy, men of eminent qualities and 
of well-deserved authority. Among the Massachu- 
setts Bay colonists the proportion of ministers, 
trained at Oxford and Cambridge, was surprisingly 
large, and, if we may trust the evidence of con- 
temporary secular literature, such men as Higgin- 
son. Cotton, Wilson, Norton, Shepard, Bulkley, 
Davenport, to mention no more, were, in learning, 
intelligence, and general accomplishment, far above 
the average parson of the country and the church 
from which their consciences had driven them out. 
The presence and influence of such men were of in- 
estimable consequence to the fortunes of the colony. 
If they were narrow, it was as the Sword of Right- 
eousness is narrow. If they had but one idea, it 
was as the leader of a forlorn hope has but one, and 
can have no other, namely, to do the duty that is laid 
on him, and ask no questions. Our Puritan ances- 
tors have been misrepresented and maligned by 
persons without imagination enough to make them- 
selves contemporary with, and therefore able to un- 
derstand, the men whose memories they strive to 
blacken. That happy breed of men who, both in 
church and state, led our first emigration, were 
children of the most splendid intellectual epoch 
that England has ever known. They were the 
coevals of a generation which passed on in scarcely 


diminished radiance the torch of life kindled in 
great Eliza's golden days. Out of the New Learn* 
ing, the new ferment alike religious and national, 
and the New Discoveries with their suggestion 
of boundless possibility, the alembic of that age 
had distilled a potent elixir either inspiring or 
intoxicating, as the mind that imbibed it was 
strong or weak. Are we to suppose that the lips 
of the founders of New England alone were un- 
wetted by a drop of that stimidating draught? — 
that Milton was the only Puritan that had read 
Shakespeare and Ben Jonson and Beaumont and 
Fletcher ? I do not believe it, whoever may. Did 
they flee from persecution to become themselves 
persecutors in turn ? This means only that they 
would not permit their holy enterprise to be hin- 
dered or their property to be damaged even by men 
with the most pious intentions and as sincere, if not 
always so wise, as they. They would not stand any 
nonsense, as the phrase is, a mood of mind from 
which their descendants seem somewhat to have 
degenerated. They were no more unreasonable 
than the landlady of Taylor the Platonist in refus- 
ing to let him sacrifice a bull to Jupiter in her 
back-parlor. The New England Puritans of the 
second generation became narrow enough, and pup- 
pets of that formalism against which their fathers 
had revolted. But this was the inevitable result 
of that isolation which cut them off from the great 
currents of cosmopolitan thought and action. Com- 
munities as well as men have a right to be judged 
by their best. We are justified in taking the elder 


Winthrop as a type of the leading emigrants, and 
the more we know him the more we learn to rever- 
ence his great qualities, whether of mind or char- 
acter. The posterity of those earnest and single- 
minded men may have thrown the creed oi their 
fathers into the waste-basket, but their fidelity to it 
and to the duties they believed it to involve is the 
most precious and potent drop in their transmitted 
blood. It is especially noteworthy that they did not 
make a strait-waistcoat of this creed for their new 
college. The more I meditate upon them, the more 
I am inclined to pardon the enthusiasm of our old 
preacher when he said that God had sifted three 
kingdoms to plant New England.^ 

The Massachusetts Bay Colony itseK also was 
then and since without a parallel. It was estab- 
lished by a commercial company, whose members 
combined in themselves the two by no means incon- 
gruous elements of religious enthusiasm and busi- 
ness sagacity, the earthy ingredient, as in dyna- 
mite, holding in check its explosive partner, which 
yet coidd and did explode on sufficient concussion. 
They meant that their venture shoidd be gainful, 
but at the same time believed that nothing coidd 
be long profitable for the body wherein the soul 
found not also her advantage. They feared God, 

1 Writing in the country, with almost no books about me, I 
have been obliged to trust wholly to my memory in my references. 
My friend Dr. Charles Deane, the most learned of our historical 
antiquarians, kindly informs me that the passage alluded to in 
the text should read, *' God sifted a whole Nation that he might 
send choice Grain out into this Wilderness/' Stoughton's Elec- 
tion Sermon, preached in 1668. 


and kept their powder dry because they feared 
Him and meant that others shoidd. I think their 
most remarkable characteristic was their public 
spirit, and in nothing did they show both that and 
the wise forecast that gives it its best value more 
clearly than when they resolved to keep the higher 
education of youth in their own hands and under 
their own eye. This they provided for in the Col- 
lege. Eleven years later they established their sys- 
tem of public schools, where reading and writing 
should be taught. This they did partly, no doubt, 
to provide feeders for the more advanced schools, 
and so for the College, but even more, it may safely 
be inferred, because they had found that the polity 
to which their ends, rough-hew them as they might, 
must be shaped, by the conditions under which they 
were forced to act, could be safe only in tlie hands 
of intelligent men, or, at worst, of men to whom 
they had given a chance to become such. 

In founding the College, they had three objects : 
first, the teaching of the Humanities and of He- 
brew, as the hieratic language ; second, the train- 
ing of a learned as well as godly clergy ; and third, 
the education of the Indians, that they might serve 
as missionaries of a higher civilization and of a 
purer religion, as the necessary preliminary thereto. 
The third of these objects, after much effort and 
much tribulation, they were forced to abandon. 
John Winthrop, Jr., in a letter written to the Hon- 
orable Robert Boyle in 1663, gives us an interest- 
ing glimpse of a pair of these dusky catechumens. 
" I make bold," he says, " to send heere inclosed 


a kind of rarity ; ... It is two papers of Latin 
composed by two Indians now seollars in the Col- 
ledge in this country, and the writing is with their 
own hands. . . . Possibly as a novelty of that kind 
it may be acceptable, being a reall fruit of that 
hopef ull worke y* is begu amongst them . . . tes- 
tifying thus much that I received them of those 
Indians out of their own hands, and had ready an- 
swers fro them in Latin to many questions that I 
propounded to them in y^ language, and heard them 
both express severall sentences in Greke also. I 
doubt not but those honorable /autores Scientia- 
rum [the Royal Society] will gladly receive the 
intelligence of such Vestigia Doctrince in this wil- 
derness amongst such a barbarous people." Alas, 
these Vestigia became only too soon retrorsumf 
The Indians showed a far greater natural predis- 
position for disf urnishing the outside of other peo- 
ple's heads than for furnishing the insides of their- 
own. Their own wild life must have been dear to 
them; the forest beckoned just outside the Col- 
lege door, and the first blue-bird of spring whistled 
them back to the woods. They would have said 
to the president, with the Gypsy steward in the 
old play when he heard the new-come nightingale, 
" Oh, Sir, you hear I am called." At any rate, 
our College succeeded in keeping but one of these 
wild creatures long enough to make a graduate of 
him, and he thereupon vanishes into the merciful 
shadow of the past. His name — but, as there 
was only one Indian graduate, so there is only one 
living man who can pronoimce his unconverted 


name, and I leave the task to Dr. Hammond 

I shall not attempt, even in brief, a history of 
the College. It has already been excellently done. 
A compendium of it would be mainly a list of un- 
familiar names, and Coleridge has said truly that 
such names " are non-conductors ; they stop all 

The fame and usefulness of all institutions of 
learning depend on the greatness of those who 
teach in them, 

** Quels arte benig-na, 
Et meliore luto finxit prsecordia Titan,'' 

and great teachers are almost rarer than great 
poets. We can lay claim to none such (T must 
not speak of the living), unless it be Agassiz, whom 
we adopted, but we have had many devoted and 
some eminent. It has not been their faidt if they 
have not pushed farther forward the boundaries of 
knowledge. Our professors have been compelled 
by the necessities of the case (as we are apt to call 
things which we ought to reform, but do not) to 
do too much work not properly theirs, and that of 
a kind so exacting as to consume the energy that 
might have been ample for higher service. They 
have been obliged to double the parts of professor 
and tutor. They have been underpaid and the 
balance made good to them by being overworked. 
During the seventeenth century we have reason to 
think that the College kept pretty well up to the 
standard of its contemporary colleges in England, 
so far as its po.verty would allow. It seems to 


have enjoyed a certain fame abroad among men 
who sympathized with the theology it taught, for 
I possess a Hebrew Accidence, dedicated some two 
hundred years ago to the ^^ illustrious academy at 
Boston in New England," by a Dutch scholar 
whom I cannot help thinking a very discerning 
person. That the students of that day had access 
to a fairly good library may be inferred from Cot- 
ton Mather's " Magnalia," though he knew not 
how to make the best use of it, and is a very night- 
mare of pedantry. That the College had made 
New England a good market for books is proved 
by John Dunton's journey hither in the interests 
of his trade. During the eighteenth and first 
quarter of the nineteenth centuries, I fancy the 
condition of things here to have been very much 
what it was in the smaller English colleges of the 
period, if we may trust the verses which Gray ad- 
dressed to the goddess Ignorance. Young men 
who were willing mainly to teach themselves might 
get something to their advantage, while the rest 
were put here by their parents as into a comforta- 
ble quarantine, where they could wait till the gates 
of life were opened to them, safe from any con- 
tagion of learning, except such as might be devel- 
oped from previous infection. I am speaking of 
a great while ago. Men are apt, I know, in after 
life to lay the blame of their scholastic shortcom- 
ings at the door of their teachers. They are often 
wrong in this, and I am quite aware that there 
are some pupils who are knowledge-proof; but I 
gather from tradition, which I believe to be trust- 


worthy, that there have been periods in the history 
of the College when the students might have sung 
with Bishop Golias : — 

'* Hi DOS docent, sed indocti ; 
Hi DOS docent, et nox nocti 
Indicat scientiam." 

Despite all this, it is remarkable that the two 
first American imaginative artists, Allston in paint- 
ing and Greenough in sculpture, were graduates of 
Harvard. A later generation is justly proud of 

We have a means of testing the general culture 
given here towards the middle of the last century 
in the Gratulatio presented by Harvard College 
on the accession of George III. It is not duller 
than such things usually are on the other side of 
the water, and it shows a pretty knack at tagging 
verses. It is noteworthy that the Greek in it, if I 
remember rightly, is wholly or chiefly Governor 
Bernard's. A few years earlier, some of the tracts 
in the Whitfield controversy prove that the writers 
had got here a thorough training in English at 
least. They had certainly not read their Swift in 

But the chief service, as it was the chief office, 
of the College during all those years was to main- 
tain and hand down the traditions of how excellent 
a thing Learning was, even if the teaching were 
not always adequate by way of illustration. And 
yet, so far as that teaching went, it was wise in 
this, that it gave its pupils some tincture of letters 
as distinguished from mere scholarship. It aimed 


to teach them the authors, that is, the few great 
ones, — the late Professor Popkin, whom the older 
of us remember, would have allowed that title only 
to the Greeks, — and to teach them in such a way 
as to enable the pupil to assimilate somewhat of 
their thought, sentiment, and style, rather than to 
master the minuter niceties of the language in 
which they wrote. It struck for their matter, as 
Montaigne advised, who would have men taught to 
love Virtue instead of learning to decline virttts. 
It set more store by the marrow than by the bone 
that encased it. It made language, as it should be, 
a ladder to literature, and not literature a ladder 
to language. Many a boy has hated, and rightly 
hated. Homer and Horace the pedagogues and 
grammarians, who would have loved Homer and 
Horace the poets, had he been allowed to make 
their acquaintance. The old method of instruction 
had the prime merit of enabling its pupils to con- 
ceive that there is neither ancient nor modem on 
the narrow shelves of what is truly literature. We 
owe a great debt to the Germans. No one is more 
indebted to them than I, but is there not danger of 
their misleading us in some directions into pedan- 
try ? In his preface to an Old French poem of the 
thirteenth century, lately published, the editor in- 
forms us sorrowfully that he had the advantage of 
listening only two years and a half to the lectures 
of Professor Gaston Paris, in which time he got 
no farther than through the first three vowels. At 
this rate, to master the whole alphabet, consonants 
and all, would be a task fitter for the centurial ado- 


lescence of Methuselah than for our leds liberal ra- 
tion of years. I was glad my editor had had this 
advantage under so competent a master, and I am 
quite willing that Old French should get the ben- 
efit of such scrupulosity, but I think I see a ten- 
dency to train young men in the languages as if 
they were all to be editors, and not lovers of polite 
literature. Education, we are often told, is a draw- 
ing out of the faculties. May they not be ^rawn 
out too thin ? I am not undervaluing philology or 
accuracy of scholarship. Both are excellent and 
admirable in their places. But philology is less 
beautiful to me tiian philosophy, as Milton under- 
stood the word, and mere accuracy is to Truth as a 
plaster-cast to the marble statue ; it gives the facts, 
but not their meaning. If I must choose, I had 
rather a young man should be intimate with the 
genius of the Greek dramatic poets than with the 
metres of their choruses, though I should be glad 
to have him on easy terms with both. 

For more than two hundred years, in its disci- 
pline and courses of study, the College followed 
mainly the lines traced by its founders. The in- 
fluence of its first half century did more than any 
other, perhaps more than all others, to make New 
England what it is. During the one hundred and 
forty years preceding our War of Independence it 
had supplied the schools of the greater part of New 
England with teachers. What was even more im- 
portant, it had sent to every parish in Massachu- 
setts one man, the clergyman, with a certain amount 
of scholarship, a belief in culture, and generally 


pretty sure -to bring with hiin or to gather a con- 
siderable collection of books, by no means wholly 
theological. Simple and godly men were they, the 
truest modem antitypes of Chaucer's Good Parson, 
receiving much, sometimes all, of their scanty sal- 
ary in kind, and eking it out by the drudgery of a 
cross-grained farm where the soil seems all back- 
bone. If there was no regular practitioner, they 
practised without fee a grandmotherly sort of medi- 
cine, probably not much more harmful ( O, dura 
messorum ilia) than the heroic treatment of the 
day. They contrived to save enough to send their 
sons through college, to portion their daughters, 
decently trained in English literature of the more 
serious kind, and perfect in the duties of household 
and dairy, and to make modest provision for the 
widow, if they should leave one. With all this, 
they gave their two sermons every Sunday of the 
year, and of a measure that would seem ruinously 
liberal to these less stalwart days, when scarce ten 
parsons together could lift the stones of Diomed 
which they hurled at Satan with the easy precision 
of lifelong practice. And if they turned their bar- 
rel of discourses at the end of the Horatian ninth 
year, which of their parishioners was the wiser for 
it? Their one great holiday was Commencement, 
which they punctually attended. They shared the 
many toils and the rare festivals, the joys and the 
sorrows, of their townsmen as bone of their bone 
and flesh of their flesh, for all were of one blood 
and of one faith. They dwelt on the same bro- 
therly level with them as men, yet set apart from 


and above them by their sacred office. Preaching 
the most terrible of doctrines, as most of them did, 
they were humane and cheerful men, and when 
they came down from the pulpit seemed to have 
been merely twisting their " cast-iron logic '* of de- 
spair, as Coleridge said of Donne, " into true-love- 
knots." Men of authority, wise in council, inde- 
pendent, for their settlement was a life-tenure, they 
were living lessons of piety, industry, frugality, 
temperance, and, with the magistrates, were a re- 
cognized aristocracy. Surely never was an aristo- 
cracy so simple, so harmless, so exemplary, and so 
fit to rule. I remember a few lingering survivors 
of them in my early boyhood, relics of a serious 
but not sullen past, of a community for which in 
civic virtue, intelligence, and general efficacy I 
seek a parallel in vain : — 

*' rusticorum mascula militum 
Proles . . . docta . . . 

Versare glebas et severffi 
Matris ad arbitrium recisos 

Portare fustes." 

I know too well the deductions to be made. It 
was a community without charm, or with a homely 
charm at best, and the life it led was visited by no 
muse even in dream. But it was the stufiE out of 
which fortunate ancestors are made, and twenty- 
five years ago* their sons showed in no diminished 
measure the qualities of the breed. Id every house- 
hold some brave boy was saying to his mother, as 
Iphigenia to hers, — 


Nor were Harvard's sons the last. This hall com- 
memorates them, but their story is written in head- 
stones all over the land they saved. 

To the teaching and example of those reverend 
men whom Harvard bred and then planted in every 
hamlet as pioneers and outposts of her doctrine, 
Massachusetts owes the better part of her moral 
and intellectual inheritance. They, too, were the 
progenitors of a numerous and valid race. My 
friend Dr. Holmes was, I believe, the first to point 
out how large a proportion of our men of light and 
leading sprang from their loins. The illustrious 
Chief Magistrate of the Republic, who honors us 
with his presence here to-day, has ancestors itali- 
cized in our printed registers, and has shown him- 
self worthy of his pedigree. 

During the present century, I believe that Har- 
vard received and welcomed the new learning from 
Germany at the hands of Everett, Bancroft, and 
Ticknor, before it had been accepted by the more 
conservative universities of the Old Home. Ever- 
ett's translation of Buttmann's Greek Grammar 
was reprinted in England, with the *' Massachu- 
setts " omitted after " Cambridge," at the end of 
the preface, to conceal its American origin. Emer- 
son has told us how his intellectual life was quick- 
ened by the eloquent enthusiasm of Everett's 
teaching. Mr. Bancroft made strenuous eflForts to 
introduce a more wholesome discipline and maturer 
methods of study, with the result of a rebellion of 
the Freshman Class, who issued a manifesto of 
their wrongs, written by the late Robert Rantoul, 


which ended thus: "Shall freemen bear this? 
Freshmen are freemeD I " They, too, remembered 
Revolutionary sires. Mr. Bancroft's translation of 
Heeren was the first of its kind, and it is worth 
mention that the earliest version from the prose of 
Heinrich Heine into English was made here, though 
not by a graduate of Harvard. Ticknor also strove 
earnestly to enlarge the scope of the collegiate 
courses of study. The force of the new impulse 
did not last long, or produce, unless indirectly, 
lasting results. It was premature, the students 
were really school-boys, and the College was not yet 
capable of the larger university life. The condi- 
tions of American life, too, were such that young 
men looked upon scholarship neither as an end nor 
as a means, but simply as an accomplishment, like 
music or dancing, of which they were to acquire a 
little more or a little less, generally a little less, 
according to individual taste or circumstances. It 
has been mainly during the last twenty-five years 
that the College, having already the name, but by 
no means all the resources, of a university, has 
been trying to perform some, at least, of the func- 
tions which that title implies. 

** Now half appears 
The tawny lion, pawing to get free." 

Let US, then, no longer look backwards, but for- 
wards, as our fathers did when they laid our hum- 
ble foundations in the wilderness. The motto first 
proposed for the College arms was, as you know, 
Veritas^ written across three open books. It was a 
noble one, and, if the full bearing of it was under- 


stood, as daring as it was noble. Perhaps it was 
discarded because an open book seemed hardly the 
fittest symbol for what is so hard to find, and, if 
ever we fancy we have found it, so hard to decipher 
and to translate into our own language and life. 
Pilate's question still murmurs in the ear of every 
thoughtful, and Montaigne's in that of every hon- 
est man. The motto finally substituted for that, 
Christo et Ecclesice^ is, when rightly interpreted, 
substantially the same, for it means that we are to 
devote ourselves to the highest conception we have 
of Truth and to the preaching of it. Fortunately, 
the Sphinx proposes her conundrums to us one at 
a time and at intervals proportioned to our wits, 

Joseph de Maistre says that " un homme d'esprit 
est tenu de savoir deux choses : 1°, ce qu'il est ; 2®, 
oil il est." The questions for us are. In what sense 
and how far are we become a university? And 
then, if we fully become so, What and to what end 
should a university aim to teach now and here in 
this America of ours whose meaning no man can 
yet comprehend ? And, when we have settled what 
it is best to teach, comes the further question, How 
are we to teach it ? Whether with an eye to its 
eflFect on developing character or personal availa- 
bility, that is to say, to its eflFect in the conduct of 
life, or on the chances of getting a livelihood? 
Perhaps we shall find that we must have a care for 
both, and I cannot see why the two need be incom- 
patible ; but if they are, I should choose the for- 
mer term of the alternative. 

In a not remote past, society had still certain 


recognized, authoritative guides, and the College 
trained them as the fashion of the day required. 

'* Damnosa qnid non imminuit dies ? '' 

That ancient close corporation of official guides has 
been compelled to surrender its charter. We are 
pestered with as many volunteers as at Niagara, 
and, as there, if we follow any of them, may count 
on paying for it pretty dearly. The office of the 
higher instruction, nevertheless, continues to be as 
it always was, the training of such guides ; only it 
must now try to fit them out with as much more 
personal accomplishment and authority as may 
compensate the loss of hierarchical prestige. 

When President Walker, it must be now nearly 
thirty years ago, asked me in common with my col- 
leagues what my notion ^s^ university was, I an- 
swered, " A imiversity is a place where nothing 
useful is taught ; but a university is possible only 
where a man .may get his livelihood by digging 
Sanscrit roots." What I meant was that the high- 
est office of the somewhat complex thing so named 
was to distribute the true Bread, of Life, the pane 
^degli angeli^ as Dante called it, and to breed an 
appetite for it; but that it should also have the 
means and appliances for teaching everything, aa 
the mediaeval universities aimed to do in their ^n- 
vium and quadrivium. I had in mind the ideal and 
the practical sides of the institution, and was think- 
ing also whether such an institution was practica- 
ble, and, if so, whether it was desirable, in a coun- 
try like this. I think it eminently desirable, and, 


if it be, what should be its chief function? I 
choose rather to hesitate my opinion than to assert 
it roundly. But some opinion I am bound to have, 
either my own or another man's, if I would be in 
the fashion, though I may not be wholly satisfied 
with the one or the other. Opinions are ^^as 
handy," to borrow our Yankee proverb, "as a 
pocket in a shirt," and, I may add, as liard to come 
at. I hope, then, that the day will come when a 
competent professor may lecture here also for three 
years on the first three vowels of the Komance 
alphabet, and find fit audience, though few. I hope 
the day may never come when the weightier mat- 
ters of a language, namely, such parts of its litera- 
ture as have overcome death by reason of their 
wisdom and of the beauty in which it is incarnated, 
such parts as are universal by reason of their civil- 
izing properties, their power to elevate and fortify 
the mind, — I hope the day may never come when 
these are not predominant in the teaching given 
here. Let the Humanities be maintained undimin- 
ished in their ancient right. Leave in their tra- 
ditional preeminence those arts that were rightly 
called liberal ; those studies that kindle the imagi- 
nation, and through it irradiate the reason ; those 
studies that manumitted the modern mind ; those in 
which the brains of finest temper have found alike 
their stimulus and their repose, taught by them that 
the power of intellect is heightened in proportion 
as it is made gracious by measure and symmetry. 
Give us science, too, but give first of all, and last of 
all, the science that ennobles life and makes it gen- 


erous. I stand here as a man of letters, and as a 
man of letters I must speak. But I am speaking 
with no exclusive intention. No one believes more 
firmly than I in the usefulness, I might well say 
the necessity, of variety in study, and of opening 
the freest scope possible to the prevailing bent of 
every mind when that bent shows itseK to be so 
predominating as to warrant it. Many-sidedness 
of culture makes our vision clearer and keener in 
particulars. For after all, the noblest definition 
of Science is that breadth and impartiality of view 
which liberates the mind from specialties, and ena- 
bles it to organize whatever we learn, so that it 
become real Knowledge by being brought into true 
and helpful relation with the rest. 

By far the most important change that has been 
introduced into the theory and practice of our 
teaching here by the new position in which we find 
ourselves has been that of the elective or voluntary 
system of studies. We have justified ourselves by 
the familiar proverb that one man may lead a horse 
to water, but ten can't make him drink. Proverbs 
are excellent things, but we should not let even 
proverbs bully us. They are the wisdom of the 
understanding, not of the higher reason. There is 
another animal, which even Simonides could com- 
pliment only on the spindle-side of his pedigree, 
and which ten men could not lead to water, much 
less make him drink when they got him thither. 
Are we not trying to force university forms into 
college methods too narrow for them? There is 
some danger that the elective system may be pushed 


too far and too fast. There are not a few who 
think that it has gone too far abeady. And they 
think so because we are in process of transforma- 
tion, still in the hobbledehoy period, not having 
ceased to be a college, nor yet having reached the 
full manhood of a university, so that we speak with 
that ambiguous voice, half bass, half treble, or 
mixed of both, which is proper to a certain stage 
of adolescence. We are trying to do two things 
with one tool, and that tool not specially adapted 
to either. Are our students old enough thoroughly 
to understand the import of the choice they are 
called on to make, and, if old enough, are they 
wise enough ? Shall their parents make the choice 
for them ? I am not sure that even parents are so 
wise as the unbroken experience and practice of 
mankind. We are comforted by being told that 
in this we are only complying with what is called 
the Spirit of the Age, which may be, after all, only 
a finer name for the mischievous goblin known to 
our forefathers as Puck. I have seen several Spir^ 
its of the Age in my time, of very different voices 
and summoning in very different directions, but 
unanimous in their propensity to land us in the 
mire at last. Would it not be safer to make sore 
first whether the Spirit of the Age, who would be 
a very insignificant fellow if we docked him of his 
capitals, be not a lying spirit, since such there are ? 
It is at least curious that, while the more advanced 
teaching has a strong drift in the voluntary direc- 
tion, the compulsory system, as respects primary 
studies, is gaining ground. Is it indeed so self- 


evident a proposition as it seems to many that 
" You may " is as wholesome a lesson for youth as 
" You must " ? Is it so good a fore-schooling for 
Life, which will be a teacher of quite other mood, 
making us learn, rod in hand, precisely those les- 
sons we should not have chosen ? I have, to be 
sure, heard the late President Quincy (clarum et 
venerabile nomen) say that if a young man came 
hither and did nothing more than rub his shoulders 
against the college buildings for four years, he 
would imbibe some tincture of sound learning by 
an involuntary process of absorption. The found- 
ers of the College also believed in some impul- 
sions towards science communicated a tergo but of 
sharper virtue, and accordingly armed their pre- 
sident with that ductor duhitantium which was 
wielded to such good purpose by the Reverend 
James Bowyer at Christ's Hospital in the days of 
Coleridge and Lamb. They believed with the old 
poet that whipping was " a wild benefit of nature," 
and, could they have read Wordsworth's exquisite 
stanza, — 

*' One impulse from a vernal wood 
Can teach us more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can," 

they would have struck out " vernal" and inserted 
" birchen " on the margin. 

I am not, of course, arguing in favor of a return 
to those vapulatory methods, but the birch, like 
many other things that have passed out of the re- 
gion of the practical, may have another term of 


usefulness as a symbol after it has ceased to be a 

One is sometimes tempted to think that all learn- 
ing is as repulsive to ingenuous youth as the mul- 
tiplication table to Scott^s little friend Marjorie 
Fleming, though this is due in great part to me- 
chanical methods of teaching. " I am now going 
to tell you," she writes, " the horrible and wretched 
plaege that my multiplication table gives me ; you 
can't conceive it; the most Devilish thing is 8 
times 8 and 7 times 7 ; it is what nature itself 
can't endure." I know that I am approaching 
treacherous ashes which cover burning coals, but I 
must on. Is not Greek, nay, even Latin, yet more 
unendurable than poor Marjorie's task? How 
many boys have not sympathized with Heine in 
hating the Romans because they invented Latin 
Grammar ? And they were quite right, for we be- 
gin the study of languages at the wrong end, at 
the end which nature does not offer us, and are 
thoroughly tired of them before we arrive at them, 
if you will pardon the bull. But is that any rea- 
son for not studying them in the right way ? I am 
familiar with the arguments for making the study 
of Greek especially a matter of choice or chance. 
I admit their plausibility and the honesty of those 
who urge them. I should be willing also to admit 
that the study of the ancient languages without the 
hope or the prospect of going on to what they con- 
tain would be useful only as a form of intellectual 
gymnastics. Even so they would be as serviceable 
as the higher mathematics to most of us. But I 


think that a wise teacher should adapt his tasks to 
the highest, and not the lowest, capacities of the 
taught. For those lower also they would not be 
wholly without profit. When there is a tedious 
sermon, says George Herbert, 

** God takes a text and teacheth patience/' 

not the least pregnant of lessons. One of the ar- 
guments against the compulsory study of Greek, 
namely, that it is wiser to give our time to modem 
languages and modern history than to dead lan- 
guages and ancient history, involves, I think, a 
verbal fallacy. Only those languages can properly 
be called dead in which nothing living has been 
written. If the classic languages are dead, they 
yet speak to us, and with a clearer voice than that 
of any living tongue. 

'* Oralis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, praeter laudem nullius avaris." 

If their language is dead, yet the literature it 
enshrines is rammed with life as perhaps no other 
writing, except Shakespeare's, ever was or will be. 
It is as contemporary with to-day as with the ears 
it first enraptured, for it appeals not to the man 
of then or now, but to the entire round of human 
nature itself. Men are ephemeral or evanescent, 
but whatever page the authentic soul of man has 
touched with her immortalizing finger, no matter 
how long ago, is still young and fair as it was 
to the world's gray fathers. Oblivion looks in 
the face of the Grecian Muse only to forget her 
errand. Plato and Aristotle are not names but 


things. On a chaii that should represent the firm 
earth and wavering oceans of the human mind, 
they would be marked as mountain-ranges, forever 
modifying the temperature, the currents, and the 
atmosphere of thought, astronomical stations whence 
the movements of the lamps of heaven might best 
be observed and predicted. Even for the master- 
ing of our own tongue, there is no expedient so 
fruitful as translation out of another ; how much 
more when that other is a language at once so pre- 
cise and so flexible as the Greek I Greek litera- 
ture is also the most fruitful comment on our own. 
Coleridge has told us with what profit he was made 
to study Shakespeare and Milton in conjunction 
with the Greek dramatists. It is no sentimental 
argument for this study that the most justly bal- 
anced, the most serene, and the most fecundating 
minds since the revival of learning have been 
steeped in and saturated with Greek literature. 
We know not whither other studies will lead us, 
especially if dissociated from this ; we do know to 
what summits, far above our lower region of tur- 
moil, this has led, and what the many-sided out- 
look thence. Will such studies make anachro- 
nisms of us, unfit us for the duties and the busi- 
ness of to-day ? I can recall no writer more truly 
modern than Montaigne, who was almost more at 
home in Athens and Rome than in Paris. Yet 
he was a thrifty manager of his estate and a 
most competent mayor of Bordeaux. I remember 
passing once in London where demolition for a 
new thoroughfare was going on. Many houses left 


standing in the rear of those cleared away bore 
signs with the inscription " Ancient Lights." This 
was the protest of their owners against being built 
out by the new improvements from such glimpse 
of heaven as their fathers had, without adequate 
equivalent. I laid the moral to heart. 

I am speaking of the College as it has always 
existed and still exists. In so far as it may be 
driven to put on the forms of the university, — I 
do not mean the four Faculties, merely, but in the 
modern sense, — we shall naturally find ourselves 
compelled to assume the method with the function. 
Some day we shall offer here a chance, at least, to 
acquire the omne sclbile. I shall be glad, as shall 
we all, when the young American need no longer 
go abroad for any part of his training, though that 
may not be always a disadvantage, if Shakespeare 
was right in thinking that 


Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits." 

I should be still gladder if Harvard should be the 
place that offered the alternative. It seems more 
than ever probable that this will happen, and hap- 
pen in our day. And whenever it does happen, it 
will be due, more than to any and all others, to 
the able, energetic, single-minded, and yet fair- 
minded man who has presided over the College 
during the trying period of transition, and who 
will by a rare combination of eminent qualities 
carry that transition forward to its accomplishment 
without haste and without jar, — ohne Sast^ ohne 
Hast He more than any of his distinguished 


predecessors has brought the university into closer 
and more telling relations with the national life in 
whatever that life has which is most distinctive and 
most hopeful. 

But we still mainly occupy the position of a 
German Gymnasium. Under existing circum- 
stances, therefore, and with the methods of teach- 
ing they enforce, I think that special and advanced 
courses should be pushed on, so far as possible, 
as the other professional courses are, into the 
post-graduate period. The opportunity would be 
greater because the number would be less, and the 
teaching not only more thorough, but more vivify- 
ing through the more inthnate relation of teacher 
and pupil. Under those conditions the voluntary 
system will not only be possible, but will come of 
itself, for every student will know what he wants 
and where he may get it, and learning will be 
loved, as it should be, for its own sake as well as 
for what it gives. The friends of university train- 
ing can do nothing that would forward it more 
than the founding of post-graduate fellowships 
and the building and endowing of a hall where 
the holders of them might be commensals, remem- 
bering that when Cardinal Wolsey built Christ 
Church at Oxford his first care was the kitchen. 
Nothing is so great a quickener of the faculties, or 
so likely to prevent their being narrowed to a sin- 
gle groove, as the frequent social commingling of 
men who are aiming at one goal by different paths. 
If you would have really great scholars, and our 
life offers no prizes for such, it would be well if the 


university could offer them. I have often been 
struck with the many-sided versatility of the Fel- 
lows of English colleges who have kept their wits 
in training by continual fence one with another. 

During the first two centuries of her existence, 
it may be affirmed that Harvard did sufficiently 
well the only work she was called on to do, perhaps 
the only work it was possible for her to do. She 
gave to Boston her scholarly impress, to the Com- 
monwealth her scholastic impulse. To the clergy 
of her training was mainly intrusted the oversight 
of the public schools ; these were, as I have said, 
though indirectly, feeders of the College, for their 
teaching was of the plainest. But if a boy in any 
country village showed uncommon parts, the cler- 
gyman was sure to hear of it. He and the Squire 
and the Doctor, if there was one, talked it over, 
and that boy was sure to be helped onward to col- 
lege ; for next to the five points of Calvinism our 
ancestors believed in a college education, that is, 
in the best education that was to be had. The sys- 
tem, if system it should be called, was a good one, 
a practical application of the doctrine of Natural 
Selection. Ah ! how the parents — nay, the whole 
family — moiled and pinched that their boy might 
have the chance denied to them! Mr. Matthew 
Arnold has told us that in contemporary France, 
which seems doomed to try every theory of enlight> 
enment by which the fingers may be burned or the 
house set on fire, the children of the public schools 
are taught in answer to the question, " Who gives 
you all these fine things ? " to say, " The State." 


HI fares the State in which the parental image is 
replaced by an abstraction. The answer of the 
boy of whom I have been speaking would have 
been in a spirit better for the State and for the 
hope of his own future life : " I owe them, under 
God, to my own industry, to the sacrifices of my 
father and mother, and to the sympathy of good 
men." Nor was the boy's self-respect lessened, for 
the aid was given by loans, to be repaid when pos- 
sible. The times hav6 changed, and it is no longer 
the ambition of a promising boy to go to college. 
They are taught to think that a common-school 
education is good enough for all practical purposes. 
And so perhaps it is, but not for all ideal purposes. 
Our public schools teach too little or too much: 
too little if education is to go no further, too many 
things if what is taught is to be taught thoroughly ; 
and the more they seem to teach, the less likely is 
education to go further, for it is one of the prime 
weaknesses of a democracy to be satisfied with the 
second-best if it appear to answer the purpose tol- 
erably well, and to be cheaper — as it never is in 
the long run. 

Our ancestors believed in education, but not in 
making it wholly eleemosynary. And they were 
wise in this, for men do not value what they get for 
nothing any more than they value air and light till 
deprived of them. It is quite proper that the cost 
of our public schools should be paid by the rich, 
for it is their interest, as Lord Sherbrooke said, 
" to educate their rulers." But it is to make pau- 
pers of the pupils to furnish them, as is now pro- 


posed, with text-books, slates, and the like at pub- 
lic cost. This is an advance towards that State 
Socialism which, if it ever prevail, will be deadly 
to certain homespun virtues far more precious than 
most of the book-knowledge in the world. It is to 
be hoped that our higher institutions of learning 
may again be brought to bear, as once they did, 
more directly on the lower, that they may again 
come into such closer and gi^aduated relation with 
them as may make the higher education the goal 
to which all who show a clear aptitude shall aspire. 
I know that we cannot have ideal teachers in our 
public schools for the price we pay or in the num- 
bers we require. But teaching, like water, can rise 
no higher than its source, and, like water again, it 
has a lazy aptitude for running down-hill unless a 
constant impulse be applied in the other direction. 
Would not this impulse be furnished by the ambi- 
tion to send on as many pupils as possible to the 
wider sphere of the university ? Would not this 
organic relation to the Higher Education necessi- 
tate a corresponding rise in the grade of intelli- 
gence, capacity, and culture demanded in the teach- 

Harvard has done much by raising its standard 
to force upwards that also of the preparatory 
schools. The leaven thus infused will, let us hope, 
filter gradually downwards till it raise a ferment 
in the lower grades as well. What we need more 
than anything else is to increase the number of 
our highly cultivated men and thoroughly trained 
minds; for these, wherever they go, are sure to 


carry with them, consciously or not, the seeds of 
sounder thinking and of higher ideals. The only 
way in which our civilization can be maintained 
even at the level it has reached, the only wfiy in 
which that level can be made more general and be 
raised higher, is by bringing the influence of the 
more cultivated to bear with greater energy and 
directness on the less cultivated, and by opening 
more inlets to tliose indirect influences which make 
for refinement of mind and body. Democracy must 
show its capacity for producing not a higher aver- 
age man, but the highest possible types of manhood 
in all its manifold varieties, or it is a failure. No 
matter what it does for the body, if it do not in 
some sort satisfy that inextinguishable passion of 
the soul for something that lifts life away from 
prose, from the common and the vulgar, it is a fail- 
ure. Unless it know how to make itself gracious 
and winning, it is a failure. Has it done this ? Is 
it doing this ? Or trying to do it ? Not yet, I 
think, if one may judge by that commonplace of 
our newspapers that an American who stays long 
enough in Europe is sure to find his own country 
unendurable when he comes back. This is not 
true, if I may judge from some little experience, 
but it is interesting as implying a certain conscious- 
ness, which is of the most hopeful augury. But we 
must not be impatient ; it is a far cry from the 
dwellers in caves to even such civilization as we 
have achieved. I am conscious that life has been 
trying to civilize me for now nearly seventy years 
with what seem to me very inadequate results. We 


cannot afford to wait, but the Race can. And when 
I speak of civilization I mean those things that 
tend to develop the moral forces of Man, and not 
merely to quicken his aesthetic sensibility, though 
there is often a nearer relation between the two 
than is popularly believed. 

The tendency of a prosperous Democracy — and 
hitherto we have had little to do but .prosper — is 
towards an overweening confidence in itself and 
its home-made methods, an overestimate of mate- 
rial success, and a corresponding indifference to 
the things of the mind. The popular ideal of suc- 
cess seems to be more than ever before the accu- 
mulation of riches. I say " seems," for it may be 
only because the opportunities are greater. I am 
not ignorant that wealth is the great fertilizer of 
civilization, and of the arts that beautify it. The 
very names of civilization and politeness show that 
the refinement of manners which made the arts 
possible is the birth of cities, where wealth earliest 
accumulated because it found itself secure. Wealth 
may be an excellent thing, for it means power, it 
means leisure, it means liberty. 

But these, divorced from culture, that is, from 
intelligent purpose, become the very mockery of 
their own essence, not goods, but evils fatal to their 
possessor, and bring with them, like the Niblung 
hoard, a doom instead of a blessing. A man rich 
only for himself has a life as barren and cheer- 
less as that of the serpent set to guard a buried 
treasure. I am saddened when I see our success 
as a nation measured by the number of acres under 


tillage or bushels of wheat exported ; for the real 
value of a country must be weighed in scales more 
delicate than the Balance of Trade. The garners 
of Sicily are empty now, but the bees from all 
climes still fetch honey from the tiny garden-plot 
of Theocritus. On a map of the world you may 
cover Judea with your thumb, Athens with a finger- 
tip, and neither of them figures in the Prices Cur- 
rent ; but they still lord it in the thought and action 
of evgry civilized man. Did not Dante cover with 
his hood all that was Italy six hundred years ago ? 
And, if we go back a century, where was Germany 
outside of Weimar ? Material success is good, but 
only as the necessary preliminary of better things. 
The measure of a nation's true success is the 
amount it has contributed to the tliought, the moral 
energy, the intellectual happiness, the spiritual hope 
and consolation, of mankind. There is no other, 
let our candidates flatter us as they may. We still 
make a confusion between huge and great. I know 
that I am repeating truisms, but they are truisms 
that need to be repeated in season and out of sea- 

The most precious property of Culture and of a 
college as its trustee is to maintain higher ideals of 
life and its purpose, to keep trimmed and burning 
the lamps of that pharos, built by wiser than we, 
which warns from the reefs and shallows of pop- 
ular doctrine. In proportion as there are more 
thoroughly cultivated persons in a community will 
the finer uses of prosperity be taught and the vul- 
gar uses of it become disreputable. And it is such 


persons that we are commissioned to send out with 
such consciousness of their fortunate vocation and 
such devotion to it as we may. We are confronted 
with unexampled problems. First of all is demivi 
cracy, and that under conditions in great part novel, 
with its hitherto imperfectly tabulated results, 
whether we consider its effect upon national char- 
acter, on popular thought, or on the functions of 
law and government ; we have to deal with a time 
when the belief seems to be spreading that truth 
not only can but should be settled by a show of 
hands rather than by a count of heads, and that 
one man is as good as another for all purposes, — 
as, indeed, he is till a real man is needed ; with a 
time when the press is more potent for good or for 
evil than ever any human agency was before, and 
yet is controlled more than ever before, by its in- 
terests as a business rather than by its sense of 
duty as a teacher, and must purvey news instead of 
intelligence ; with a time when divers and strange 
doctrines touching the greatest human interests are 
allowed to run about unmuzzled in greater number 
and variety than ever before since the Reformation 
passed into its stage of putrefactive fermentation ; 
with a time when the idols of the market-place are 
more devoutly worshipped than ever Diana of the 
Ephesians was ; when the guilds of the Middle 
Ages are revived among us with the avowed pur- 
pose of renewing by the misuse of universal suf- 
frage the class-legislation to escape which we left 
the Old World; when the electric telegraph, by 
making public opinion simultaneous, is also mating 


it liable to those delusions, panics, and gregarious 
impulses which transform otherwise reasonable 
men into a mob ; and when, above all, the better 
mind of the country is said to be growing more and 
more alienated from the highest of all sciences and 
services, the government of it. I have drawn up 
a dreary catalogue, and the moral it points is this : 
That the College, in so far as it continues to be 
still a college, as in great part it does and must, is 
and should be limited by certain preexisting condi- 
tions, and must consider first what the more gen- 
eral objects of education are without neglecting 
special aptitudes more than cannot be helped. 
That more general purpose is, I take it, to set free, 
to supple, and to train the faculties in such wise as 
shall make them most effective for whatever task 
life may afterwards set them, for the duties of life 
rather than for its business, and to open windows 
on every side of the mind where thickness of wall 
does not prevent it. 

Let our aim be, as hitherto, to give a good all- 
round education fitted to cope with as many exi- 
gencies of the day as possible. I had rather the 
College should turn out one of Aristotle's four- 
square men, capable of holding his own in what- 
ever field he may be cast, than a score of lopsided 
ones developed abnormally in one direction. Our 
scheme should be adapted to the wants of the 
majority of under-graduates, to the objects that 
drew them hither, and to such training as will 
make the most of them after they come. Special 
aptitudes are sure to take care of themselves, but 


the latent possibilities of the average mind can 
only be discovered by experiment in many direc- 
tions. When I speak of the average mind, I do not 
mean that the courses of study should be adapted 
to the average level of intelligence, but to the 
highest, for in these matters it is wiser to grade 
upwards than downwards, since the best is the 
only thing that is good enough. To keep the 
wing-footed down to the pace of the leaden-soled 
disheartens the one without in the least encourag- 
ing the other. " Brains," says Machiavelli, " are 
of three generations, those that understand of 
themselves, those that understand when another 
shows them, and those that understand neither of 
themselves nor by the showing of others." It is 
the first class that should set the stint ; the second 
will get on better than if they had set it them- 
selves; and the third will at least have the plea- 
sure of watching the others show their paces. 

In the College proper, I repeat, for it is the 
birthday of the College that we are celebrating, it 
is the College that we love and of which we are 
proud, let it continue to give such a training as 
will fit the rich to be trusted with riches, and the 
poor to withstand the temptations of poverty. 
Give to History, give to Political Economy, that 
ample verge the times demand, but with no detri- 
ment to those liberal Arts which have formed open- 
minded men and good citizens in the past, nor have 
lost the skiU to form them. Let it be our hope to 
make a gentleman of every youth who is put under 
our charge ; not a conventional gentleman, but a 


man of culture, a man of intellectual resource, a 
man of public spirit, a man of refinement, with 
that good taste which is the conscience of the mind, 
and that conscience which is the good taste of the 
sold. This we have tried to do in the past, this let 
us try to do in the future. We cannot do this for 
all, at best, — perhaps only for the few ; but the 
influence for good of a highly trained intelligence 
and a harmoniously developed character is incal- 
culable ; for though it be subtle and gradual in its 
operation, it is as pervasive as it is subtle. There 
may be few of these, there must be few, but 

'* That few is all the world which with a few 
Doth ever live and move and work and stirre." 

If these few can best be winnowed from the rest 
by the elective system of studies, if the drift of our 
colleges towards that system be general and invol- 
untary, showing a demand for it in the conditions 
of American life, then I should wish to see it un- 
falteringly carried through. I am sure that the 
matter will be handled wisely and with all fore- 
thought by those most intimately concerned in the 
government of the College. 

They who, on a tiny clearing pared from the 
edge of the woods, built here, most probably with 
the timber hewed from the trees they felled, our 
earliest hall, with the solitude of ocean behind 
them, the mystery of forest before them, and all 
about them a desolation, must surely (si quis ani" 
mis celestibis locuii) share our gladness and our 
gratitude at the splendid fulfilment of their vision. 
If we could but have preserved the humble roof 


which housed so great a future, Mr. Ruskin him- 
self would almost have admitted that no castle or 
cathedral was ever richer in sacred associations, 
in pathos of the past, and in moral significance. 
They who reared it had the sublime prescience of 
that courage which fears only God, and could say 
confidently in the face of all discouragement and 
doubt, " He hath led me forth into a large place ; 
because he delighted in me, He hath delivered me." 
We cannot honor them too much ; we can repay 
them only by showing, as occasions rise, that we do 
not undervalue the worth of their example. 

Brethren of the Alumni, it now becomes my 
duty to welcome in your name the guests who have 
come, some of them so far, to share our congratu- 
lations and hopes to-day. I cannot name them all 
and give to each his fitting phrase. Thrice wel- 
come to them all, and, as is fitting, first to those 
from abroad, representatives of illustrious seats of 
learning that were old in usefulness and fame when 
ours was in its cradle ; and next to those of our 
own land, from colleges and universities which, if 
not daughters of Harvard, are young enough to be 
so, and are one with her in heart and hope. I said 
that I should single out none by name, but I should 
not represent you fitly if I gave no special greeting 
to the gentleman who brings the message of John 
Harvard's College, Emmanuel. The welcome we 
give him could not be warmer than that which 
we offer to his colleagues, but we cannot help feel- 
ing that in pressing his hand our own instinctively 
closes a little more tightly, as with a sense of nearer 


kindred. There is also one other name of which 
it would be indecorous not to make an exception. 
You all know that I can mean only the President 
of our Republic. His presence is a signal honor 
to us all, and to us all I may say a personal grati- 
fication. We have no politics here, but the sons of 
Harvard all belong to the party which admires 
courage, strength of purpose, and fidelity to duty, 
and which respects, wherever he may be found, the 

'* Justum ao tenaoem propositi yirom," 

who knows how to withstand the 

'' Ciyinm ardor prava jabentiom." 

He has left the helm of state to be with us here, 
and so long as it is intrusted to his hands we are 
sure that, should the storm c-ome, he will say with 
Seneca's Pilot, " O Neptune, you may save me if 
you will ; you may sink me if you will ; but what- 
ever happen, I shall keep my rudder true." 



Gentlemen : In what I have to say (and it will 
not tax your patience long) I shall discreetly con- 
fine myself to generalities. These are apt, I know, 
to flatten into platitudes, unless handled with prac- 
tical dexterity. But I had rather run the risk of 
this than abuse the chairman's privilege of speak- 
ing first, as I have sometimes seen it abused to my 
own detriment. I shall be careful not to devas- 
tate the speeches of those who are to come after 
me by trying to show how many fine things I can 
say about the subject which will be the chief topic 
of discussion to-night. I shall prefer to let you 
suppose that I could say them if I would. For I 
consider the true office of a chairman on such 
occasions to be that of the heralds who blow a few 
conventional notes to announce that the lists are 

At this season, which custom has set apart for 
mutual good wishes and felicitations, members of a 
common kindred are wont to accentuate the feeling 
that is in all hearts by gathering round a board 
whose good cheer is at once the symbol and the 
stimulant of the generous sympathies within. Our 


festival seems to be prettily analogous with those 
others more peculiar to the season. For there are 
affinities of sentiment, there is a kinship of thought, 
and of the opinions and conduct that come of think* 
ing, which often bind men together more closely 
than ties of blood. We are, it is true, of kin to 
each other as the children of a common country, 
but we are more nearly related, we are more vitally 
stirred by a consent of judgment in what we be- 
lieve to be for the honor and the welfare of the 
Mother so dear to us all. 

This is no doubt a political meeting ; but most 
of you would not be here, I certainly should not be 
here, had this been a conspiracy in the interest of 
any party or of any faction within a party, had it 
been, that is to say, political in that ill sense which 
our practice, if not our theory, has given to what 
should be the noblest exercise of man's intellect 
and the best training of his character. I believe, 
and am glad to believe, that all shades of party 
allegiance are represented here. If, in a free com« 
monwealth, government by party be a necessary 
expedient, it also is a necessary evil, an evil chiefly 
in this, that it enables men, nay, even forces them, 
to postpone interests of prime import and conse- 
quence to secondary and ephemeral, often to per- 
sonal interests, and not only so, but to confound 
one with the other. The success of the party be- 
comes only too soon of more importance than that 
of any principles it may be supposed to have or to 
profess. Is not the main use of a party platform 
that a screen may be built of its planks to hide its 


principles from every profane eye ? Has not the 
youngest of us seen parties repeatedly "change 
sides " with the airy gravity of a country dance ? 
Our party arrangements and contrivances are 
grown so intricate, too frequently so base, that the 
management of them has become a gainful profes- 
sion, and the class of men who should .shape public 
opinion and control the practical application of it, 
are reduced to handing the highest duty the State 
has entrusted them with to attorneys, not of their 
own choice, whose hands are not too delicate to be 
dipped into the nauseous mess with which they are 
too fastidious to soil their own. I do not believe 
that there is a man at this table who for the last 
twenty years has been able to embody his honest 
opinion, or even a fraction of it, in his vote. During 
all those years no thoughtful man has been able 
to see any other difference between the two great 
parties which stood between him and the reforms 
he deemed essential to the well being of his country 
than that the one was in and wished to stay there, 
and the other was out and did Hbt wish to stay 
there. Each appeared to make use of the same 
unworthy tricks for its own immediate advantage, 
each had an abundance of aces in its sleeve, and 
each was divided on the two great questions of 
vital interest to the country, the tariff and finance. 
If our politicians would devote to the study and 
teaching of political economy half the time they 
spend in trying to agree so as not to agree with the 
latest attempt of the Knights of Labor to unhorse 
the Nature of Things, they would be far less harm- 


f ul to themselves and to the country. Party alle- 
giance tends naturally to concentrate upon some 
representative or available man, and from this to 
degenerate into a policy of the strongest lungs, by 
which voters are driven, as sheep are driven, 
blinded by the dust themselves have raised, to over- 
trample whatever obstacle of prudence or reflection 
may stand in their way. Have we not more than 
once seen men nominated for the highest o£fice of 
the State because they had no " record," as it is 
called, that is, men with no opinion that could be 
found out, but who would serve as well as another 
(under strict supervision) to divide the booty? 
Nothing will ever persuade me that the American 
people would select such men as the representa* 
tives of their ideal, if they could help it. It is the 
duty of all sedate and thoughtful people to help 
them to help it by every honest means ; if party be 
a miserable necessity, it is the business of all such 
to mitigate, if they cannot nullify, its evils when- 
ever they have the chance. 

One, certainly, of the reasons which have brought 
us hither, one, at least, of those that chiefly sug- 
gested the opportuneness of our coming together 
here, has been the President's message at the open- 
ing of the present Congress. Personally, I confess 
that I feel myself strongly attracted to Mr. Cleve- 
land as the best representative of the higher type 
of Americanism that we have seen since Lincoln 
was snatched from us. And by Americanism I 
mean that which we cannot help, not that which 
\ve flaunt, that way of looking at things and of 


treating men which we derive from the soil that 
holds our fathers and waits for us. I think we 
have all recognized in him a manly simplicity of 
character and an honest endeavor to do all that he 
could of duty, when all that he would was made 
impossible by difficulties to the hourly trials and 
temptations of which we have fortunately never been 
exposed. But we are not here to thank him as the 
head of a party. We are here to felicitate each 
other that the presidential chair has a man in it, 
and this means that every word he says is weighted 
with what he is. We are here to felicitate each 
other that this man understands politics to mean 
business, not chicanery; plain speaking, not pal- 
tering with us in a double sense ; that he has had 
the courage to tell the truth to the country without 
regard to personal or party consequences, and thus 
to remind us that a coimtry not worth telling the 
truth to is not worth living in, nay, deserves to 
have lies told it, and to take the inevitable con- 
sequences in calamity. If it be lamentable that 
acts of official courage should have become so rare 
among us as to be noteworthy, it is consoling to 
believe that they are sometimes contagious. " So 
shines a good deed in a naughty world I " As 
courage is preeminently the virtue of men, so it is 
the virtue which most powerfully ch^^enges the 
respect and emulation of men. And it deserves 
this preeminence, for it is also the virtue which 
gives security to all the other virtues. We thank 
the President for having taught a most pertinent 
object lesson, and from a platform lofty enough to 


be seen of all the people. We should be glad to 
think, though we hardly dare to hope, that some of 
the waiters on popular providence whom we humor- 
ously call statesmen would profit by it. As one of 
the evil phenomena which are said to mark the ad- 
vances of democracy is the decay of civic courage, 
we should be grateful to the President for giving 
us reason to think that this is rather one of. its 
accidents than of its properties. Whatever be the 
effect of Mr. Cleveland's action on his personal 
fortunes, let us rejoice to think it will be a stimu- 
lating thorn in that august chair for all that may 
sit in it after him. Would that all our presidents 
might see and lay to heart that vision which Dion 
saw, that silent shape of woman sweeping and ever 
sweeping without pause. Our politics call loudly 
for a broom. There are rubbish-heaps of cant in 
every comer of them that should be swept out for 
the dustman Time to cart away and dump beyond 
sight or smell of mortal man. Mr. Cleveland, I 
think, has found the broom and begun to ply it. 

But, gentlemen, the President has set us an ex- 
ample not only of courage, but of good sense and 
moderation. He has kept strictly to his text and 
his purpose. He has stated the facts and mar- 
shalled the figures without drawing further infer- 
ences from them than were implicitly there. He has 
confined himself to the economic question, to that 
which directly concerns the national housekeeping. 
He has not allowed himself to be lured from the 
direct forthright by any temptation to discuss the 
more general and at present mainly academic ques- 


tions of free trade or protection. He has shown 
us that there was such a thing as being protected 
too much, and that we had protected our shipping 
interests so effectually that they had ceased to need 
-protection by ceasing to exist. In thus limiting 
the field of his warning and his counsels he has 
done wisely, and we shall do wisely in following 
his example. His facts and his figures will work 
all the more effectually. But we must be patient 
with them and expect them to work slowly. Enor- 
mous interests are involved and must be treated 
tenderly. It was sixty years before the leaven of 
Adam Smith impregnated the whole sluggish lump 
of British opinion, and we are a batch of the same 
dough. I can remember the time when boun- 
ties were paid for the raising of wheat in Massa- 
chusetts. Bounties have fallen into discredit now. 
They have taken an alias and play their three-card 
trick as subsidies or as protection to labor, but the 
common sense of our people will find them out at 
last. If we are not to expect any other' imme- 
diate result from the message than that best, result 
of all human speech, that it awaken thought, one 
can at least already thank it for one signal and un- 
questionable benefit. It is dividing, and will con- 
tinue more and more to divide, our parties by the 
lines of natural cleavage, and will close the arti- 
ficial and often mischievous lines which followed 
the boundaries of section or the tracings of bygone 
prejudices. We have here a question which 
equally concerns every man, woman, and child, 
black or white, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, 


from the Gulf of Mexico to the Bay of Fundy. We 
have here a topic which renders nugatory all those 
problems of ancient history which we debated and 
settled more than twenty years ago by manly wager 
of battle, and that so definitely that we welcome here 
to-night with special pleasure some of the brave 
men with whom we argued them, and whom we in- 
sisted aU the more on keeping as countrymen, that 
they had taught us how to value them. 

Gentlemen, I think I have occupied as much of 
your time as a chairman should. I will only ask 
your patience while I detain you for a moment 
longer from other speakers, whom I am as eager to 
hear as you must be. The allusion to our civil 
war, which I made a moment ago, suggests to me a 
thought which I should be glad to share with you 
before I close. That tremendous convulsion, as, 
I believe, even those engaged on the losing side 
now see as clearly as we, saved us a country that 
was worth saving, so that properly there was no 
losing side. Now what I wish to say is this, that a 
country worth saving is worth saving all the time, 
and that a country with such energies as ours, with 
such opportunities and inducements to grow rich, 
and such temptations to be content with growing 
rich, needs saving all the time. Many of us re- 
member, as they remember nothing else, the over- 
whelming rush of that great national passion, ob- 
literating all lines of party division and levelling 
all the landmarks of habitual politics. Who that 
saw it will ever forget that enthusiasm of loyalty 
for the flag and for what the flag symbolized which 


twenty-six years ago swept all the country's forces 
of thought and sentiment, of memory and hope, into 
the grasp of its overmastering torrent? Martial 
patriotism touches the heart, kindles the imagina- 
tion, and rouses the nobler energies of men as noth- 
ing else ever does or can. Even love is a paler 
emotion. That image of our Country with the 
flame of battle in her eyes which every man then 
saw, how beautiful it was, how potent to inspire 
devotion ! But these ecstasies of emotion are by 
their very nature as transient as they are ennobling. 
There is a sedater kind of patriotism, less pictur- 
esque, less inspiring, but quite as admirably ser- 
viceable in the prosy days of peace. It is the 
patient patriotism which strives to enlighten public 
opinion and to redress the balance of party spirit, 
which inculcates civic courage and independence of 
mind, which refuses to accept clamor as argument, 
or to believe that phrases become syllogisms by 
repetition. It is this more modest and thought- 
ful patriotism to the exemplifying and practice of 
which we aspire, and the first lesson it teaches us 
is that a moderated and controlled enthusiasm is, 
like stored electricity, the most powerful of motive 
forces, and that the reformer of practical abuses, 
springing from economic ignorance or mistake, then 
first begins to be wise when he allows for the 
obstinate vitality of human error and human folly, 
and is willing to believe that those who cannot see 
as he does are not therefore necessarily bad men. 




I HAVE not been so much surprised as perhaps I 
ought to have been to learn that, in the opinion of 
some of our leading politicians and of many of 
our newspapers, men of scholarly minds are ipso 
facto debarred from forming any judgment on pub- 
lic affairs ; or, if they should be so unscrupulous 
as to do so, that they must at least refrain from 
communicating it to. their fellow-citizens. One 
eminent gentleman has even gone so far qs to sneer 
at school-books as sources of information. If he 
had a chance, he would perhaps take a hint from 
what is fabled of the Caliph Omar, and bum our 
libraries : because if they contained doctrine not to 
be found in his speeches, they would be harmful, 
while if the doctrine, judged by that test, were 
orthodox, they would be useless. Books have 
hitherto been supposed to be armories of human 
experience, where we might equip ourselves for 
the battles of opinion while we had yet vigor and 
hopefulness enough left to make our weapons of 
some avail. 

Through books the youngest of us could con- 


verse with more generations than Nestor ; could 
attain that ripened judgment which is the privilege 
of old age without old age's drawbacks and dimi- 
nutions. This has been the opinion of many men, 
not reckoned the least wise in their generation. 
But they were mistaken, it seems. I looked round 
with saddened wonder at the costly apparatus of 
school-houses provided by our ancestors to the 
avowed end that " good learning might not cease 
from among us," at the libraries and universities 
by the founding of which our rich men seek to 
atone for their too rapidly agglomerated wealth, 
and said to myself, " What a wasteful blunder we 
have been making ! " Then it suddenly occurred 
to me that this putting of culture under the ban 
might be, after all, but a more subtle application 
of the American system, as it is called, which 
would exclude all foreign experience, as well as 
the raw material of it, till we had built up an ex- 
perience of our own at the same cost of mistake 
and retribution which is its unvarying price. This 
might indeed flatter my pride of country, though 
it left me, as Grumio says, to "retiu'n unexperienced 
to my grave." 

But if we are forbidden to seek knowledge in 
books, what is the alternative ? I could think of 
none unless it were immediate inspiration. It is 
true that I could not see that any authentic marks 
of it were revealed by the advocates of this novel 
theory. They keep their secret remarkably well. 
No doubt inspiration, like money, is a very handy 
thing to have, and if I should ever see an adver- 


tisement of any shop where it could be bought, even 
at second hand, I would lay in a stock of it forth- 
with. It is more convenient than knowledge, for, 
like certain articles of wearing apparel, it is adjust- 
able to the prevailing taste of the moment in any 
part of the country. It seems more studious of 
the traditions and prejudices of the multitude than 
the utterances of Isaiah were wont to be. I must 
frankly confess at the outset that I come to you 
wholly unprovided with this precious commodity. I 
must also admit that I am a book-man, that I am 
old-fashioned enough to have read many books, 
and that I hope to read many more. I find them 
easier reading than some other kinds of printed 
matter. I appear before you, therefore, with some 
diffidence, and shall make my excuses in the words 
of an elder who in my youth was accounted wise. 
Lord Bacon, a man versed both in affairs and in 
books, says : '^ And for the matter of policy and 
government, that learning should rather hurt than 
enable thereunto is a thing very improbable. We 
see it is accounted an error to commit a natural 
body to empiric physicians who commonly have a 
few pleasing receipts whereupon they are confident 
and adventurous, but know neither the causes of 
diseases, nor the constitutions of patients, nor peril 
of accidents, nor the true method of cures ; we see 
it is a like error to rely upon advocates or lawyers 
who are only men of practice and not grounded in 
their books, who are many times easily surprised 
when matter faUeth out beyond their experience to 
the prejudice of the causes they handle ; so by like 


reason it cannot be but a matter of doubtful eon- 
sequence if states be managed by empiric states- 
men not well mingled with men grounded in learn- 
ing. But, contrariwise, it is almost without an 
instance to the contrary that ever any government 
was disastrous that was in the hands of learned 
governors." He goes on to say that " It hath been 
ordinary with politique men to extenuate and dis- 
able learned men by the name of pedants,^^ Prac- 
tical politicians, as they call themselves, have the 
same habit still, only that they have substituted 
doctrinaire for pedant as the term of reproach. 
Now the true and mischievous doctrinaire is he 
who insists that facts shall accommodate themselves 
to preconceived theory, and the truly practical man 
he who would deduce theory from the amplest pos- 
sible comparison and correlation of facts; in other 
words, from recorded experience. I think it is 
already beginning to be apparent on which side of 
the questions which have been brought to the front 
by the President's Message the doctrinaires are to 
be found. We all know the empiric physicians 
who are confident and adventurous with their few 
pleasing receipts. 

Your committee asked me to give a title to such 
suggestions as I might find occasion to make this 
evening, and I took " The Place of the Indepen- 
dent in Politics" as the first that occurred to me. 
But I confess that I partake of Mr. Walter Shan- 
dy's superstition about names, and shall not allow 
myself to be circumscribed and scanted of elbow- 
room by the appellative I have chosen. I prefer 


general to personal politics. I allude to this in 
order that, in anything I shall say here, I may not 
be suspected to have one party more than another 
in my mind. I am not blind to the fact that Truth 
always seems to have gone to school to the prophet 
Nathan, and to intend a personal application. It is 
perhaps her prime vii*tue as a stimulant of thought, 
for thought is helpful in proportion as it more and 
more becomes disengaged from self, and this can- 
not happen till some sharp reminder makes us con- 
scious of that plausible accomplice in our thinking 
and in the doing which follows from it. Though I 
shall not evade present questions when they come 
naturally in my way, I shall choose rather to indi- 
cate why there is a necessity that the Independent 
should have a place in politics than to dictate where 
that place should be. I think that something I 
wrote forty years ago, if you will allow me to quote 
it, will define my notion of what is meant by an 
Independent with sufficient exactness. I then said, 
and I have not changed my mind : — 

I honor the man who is ready to sink 
Half his present repute for the freedom to Uiink, 
And when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, 
Will risk 't other half for the freedom to speak, 
Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, 
Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. 

Four years ago I was called upon to deliver an 
address in Birmingham, and chose for my theme 
" Democracy." In that place I felt it incumbent 
on me to dwell on the good points and favorable 
aspects of democracy as I had seen them practi- 
cally illustrated in my native land. I chose rather 


that my discourse should suffer through inadequacy 
than run the risk of seeming to forget what Burke 
calls " that salutary prejudice called our country," 
and that obligation which forbids one to discuss 
family affairs before strangers. But here among 
ourselves it is clearly the duty of whoever loves 
his country to be watchful of whatever weaknesses 
and perils there may be in the practical working 
of a system never before set in motion under such 
favorable auspices, or on so large a scale. I have 
called them weaknesses and perils in the system, 
but it would be idle to discuss them if I did not 
believe that they were not so properly results of 
the system as of abuses in the operation of it, due 
in part to changed conditions, in part to a thought- 
less negligence which experience and thought will 
in due time rectify. I believe that no other method 
of conducting the public affairs of men is so capa- 
ble of sloughing off its peccant parts as ours, be- 
cause in no other are the forces of life at once so 
intense and so universally distributed. 

Before we turn to the consideration of politics 
as we see them in practice, let us think for a mo- 
ment what, when properly understood, they really 
are. In their least comprehensive definition, politics 
are an art which concerns itself about the national 
housekeeping, about the immediate interests and 
workaday wants, the income and the outgo of the 
people. They have to deal with practical ques- 
tions as they arise and grow pressing. Even on 
this humbler plane they may well have an attrac- 
tion for the finest intellects and the greatest abili- 


ties in a country where public opinion is supreme, 
for they can perform their function only by per- 
suading, con\dncing, and thus governing the minds 
of men. The most trivial question acquires dig- 
nity when it touches the well-being or rouses the 
passions of many millions. But there is a higher 
and wider sense in which politics may fairly be 
ranked as a science. When they rise to this level 
we call them statesmanship. The statesman applies 
himself to the observation and recording of certain 
causes which lead constantly to certain effects, and 
is thus able to formulate general laws for the guid- 
ance of his own judgment and for the conduct of 
affairs. He is not so much interested in the devices 
by which men inay be influenced, as about how 
they ought to be influenced ; not so much about how 
men's passions and prejudices may be utilized for a 
momentary advantage to himself or his party, as 
about how they may be hindered from doing a per- 
manent harm to the commonwealth. He trains 
himself to discern evils in their .causes that he may 
forewarn if he cannot prevent, and that he may 
not be taken imawares by the long bill of damages 
they are sure to bring in, and always at the least 
convenient moment. He seeks and finds in the 
moral world the weather-signs of the actual world. 
He strives to see and know things as they really 
are and as they are related to each other, as they 
really are and therefore always must be ; his vision 
undeflected by the cross-lights of transitory circum- 
stance, his judgment undisturbed by the clamor of 
passionate and changeful opinion. 


That this conception of statesmanship is not fan- 
ciful, the writings and speeches of Burke are ample 
proof. Many great and many acute minds had 
speculated upon politics from Aristotle's time down- 
wards, but Burke was the first to illuminate the sub- 
ject of his observation and thought with the electric 
light of imagination. He turned its penetrating 
ray upon what seemed the confused and wavering 
cloud-chaos of man's nature and man's experience, 
and found there the indication, at least, if not the 
scheme, of a divine order. The result is that his 
works are as full of prophecy, some of it already 
fulfilled, some of it in course of fulfilment, as they 
are of wisdom. And this is because for him human 
nature was always the text and history the com- 
ment. There are no more pregnant lessons in the 
science of how to look at things so as to see them and 
into them, of how to distinguish what is perennial 
from what is deciduous in a political question, than 
Burke's two speeches on " Taxation of the Ameri- 
can Colonies " and on " Conciliation with America." 
For if his imagination was fervid, it served but 
to warm his understanding till that grew ductile 
enough to take a perfect impression of fact. If 
the one made generalization easy, the other, in 
testing the generalization, compelled him always to 
make account of the special diagnosis of the case 
in hand. If one would know the difference be- 
tween a statesman and a politician, let him compare 
Burke's view of the American troubles with that 
of Dr. Johnson, a man of that headstrong com- 
mon sense which sees with absorbing, one might 


almost say blinding, clearness whatever comes 
within its immediate field of vision, but is con- 
scious of nothing beyond it. The question for 
Burke was not whether taxation were tyranny, 
but whether the Americans would think it so. 
Here was a case in which expediency was at one 
with wisdom. 

But I am happy in being able to find an illus- 
tration nearer home. Never did three men show 
more clearly the quality of true statesmanship or 
render a more precious service to their country 
than Senators Fessenden, Trumbull, and Grimes, 
when they dared to act independently of party in 
the impeachment case against President Johnson. 
They saved us from the creeping paralysis which 
is now gradually benumbing the political energies 
of France. Nay, while we were yet in the gristle, 
we produced statesmen, not, indeed, endowed with 
Burke's genius, though fairly comparable with him 
in breadth of view, and sometimes his superiors 
in practical sagacity. But I think there is a grow- 
ing doubt whether we are not ceasing to produce 
them, whether perhaps we are not losing the power 
to produce them. The tricks of management are 
more and more superseding the science of govern- 
ment. Our methods force the growth of two kinds 
of politicians to the crowding out of all other vari- 
eties, — him who is called practical^ and him of the 
corner grocery. The one trades in that counterfeit 
of public opinion which the other manufactures. 
Both work in the dark, and there is need that 
some one should turn the light of his policeman's 


lantern on their doings. I believe that there is as 
much of the raw material of statesmanship among 
us as ever there was, but the duties levied by the 
local rings of majority-manufacturers are so high 
as to prohibit its entrance into competition with 
the protected article. Could we only have a trav- 
elling exhibition of our Bosses, and say to the 
American people, " Behold the shapers of your 
national destiny ! " A single despot would be 
cheaper, and probably better looking. It is a nat- 
ural impulse to turn away one's eyes from these 
flesh-flies that fatten on the sores of our body pol- 
itic, and plant there the eggs of their disgustful and 
infectious progeny. But it is the lesson of the day 
that a yielding to this repulsion by the intelligent 
and refined is a mainly efficient cause of the evil, 
and must be overcome, at whatever cost of selfish 
ease and aesthetic comfort, ere the evil can be hope^ 
fully dealt with. 

It is admitted on all hands that matters have 
been growing worse for the last twenty years, as it 
is the nature of evil to do. It is publicly asserted 
that admission to the Senate of the United States 
is a marketable thing. I know not whether this 
be true or not, but is it not an ominous sign of the 
times that this has been asserted and generally be- 
lieved to be possible, if not probable ? It is noto- 
rious that important elections are decided by votes 
bought with money, or by the more mischievous 
equivalent of money, places in the public service. 
What is even more disheartening, the tone of a 
large part of the press in regard to this state of 



things 18 cynical, or even jocular. And how often 
do we not read in our morning paper that such and 
such a local politician is dictating the choice of 
delegates to a nominating convention, or manipu- 
lating them after they are chosen ? So often that 
we at last take it as a matter of course, as some- 
thing beyond our power to modify or control, like 
the weather, at which we may grumble, if we like, 
but cannot help. We should not tolerate a packed 
jury which is to decide on the fate of a single man, 
yet we are content to leave the life of the nation 
at the mercy of a packed convention. We allow 
ourselves to be bilked of our rights and thwarted 
in our duties as citizens by men in whose hands 
their very henchmen would be the last to trust any- 
thing more valuable than their reputation. Pessi- 
mists tell us that these things are the natural inci- 
dents and necessary consequences of representative 
government under democratic conditions ; that we 
have drawn the wine, and must drink it. If I 
believed this to be so, I should not be speaking 
here to-night. Parties refuse to see, or, if they 
see, to look into, vicious methods which help them 
to a majority, and each is thus estopped from sin- 
cere protest against the same methods when em- 
ployed by the other. The people of the Northern 
States thought four years' war not too dear a price 
to prevent half their country being taken from 
them. But the practices of which I have been 
speaking are slowly and surely filching from us the 
whole of our country, — all, at least, that made it 
the best to live in and the easiest to die for. If 


parties will not look after their own drainage and 
ventilation, there must be peojile who will do it for 
them, who will cry out without ceasing till their fel- 
low-citizens are aroused to the danger of infection. 
This duty can be done only by men dissociated 
from the interests of party. The Independents 
have undertaken it, and with God's help will carry 
it through. A moral purpose multiplies us by ten, 
as it multiplied the early Abolitionists. They 
emancipated the negro; and we mean to emanci- 
pate the respectable white man. 

It is time for lovers of their country to consider 
how much of the success of our experiment in de- 
mocracy has been due to such favorable conditions 
as never before concurred to make such an attempt 
plausible ; whether those conditions have changed 
and are still changing for the worse ; how far we 
have been accessories in this degeneration, if such 
there be, and how far it is in our power, with the 
means furnished by the very instruments of de- 
struction, to stay its advance and to repair its rav- 
ages. Till within a few years of our civil war, 
everything conduced to our measuring the suc- 
cess of our institutions by the evidence of our out- 
ward prosperity, and to our seeing the future in 
rose-color. The hues of our dawn had scarcely 
faded from the sky. Men were still living who 
had seen the face and heard the voice of the most 
august personage in our history, and of others 
scarce less august than he. The traditions of our 
founders were fresh. Our growth in wealth and 
power was without precedent. We had been so. 



fortunate that we had come to look upon our luck 
as partly due to our own merits and partly to our 
form of government. When we met together it 
was to felicitate each other on our superiority to 
tlie rest of mankind. Our ears caught from behind 
tlie horizon the muffled thunders of war, only to be 
lulled as with the murmurs of the surf on a far-off 
shore. We heard of revolutions, but for us For- 
tune forgot to turn her wheel. This was what may 
be called the Fourth of July period of our history. 
Among the peoples of the earth we were the little 
Jack Homer. We had put in our thumb and 
pulled out a plum, and the rest of mankind thought 
that we were never tired of saying, " What a good 
boy am I ! " Here is a picture of our growth, 
drawn by a friendly yet impartial hand : " Nothing 
in the history of mankind is like their progress. 
For my part, I never cast an eye on their flourish- 
ing commerce and their cultivated and commodious 
life but they seem to me rather ancient nations 
grown to perfection through a long series of fortu- 
nate events and a train of successful industry ac- 
cumulating wealth in many centuries than the colo- 
nies of yesterday. . . . Your children do not grow 
faster from infancy to manhood than they spread 
from families to communities, and from villages to 
nations." But for a certain splendor of style these 
words seem to be of yesterday, so pertinent are 
they still. They were uttered in the British Par- 
liament more than a year before the battle of Lex- 
ington, by Edmund Burke. There is no exaggera- 
tion in them. They are a simple statement of fact 


Burke, with his usual perspicacity, saw and stated 
one and a chief cause of this unprecedented pheno- 
menon. He tells us that the colonies had made 
this marvellous growth because, "through a wise 
and salutary neglect, a generous nature has been 
suffered to take her own way to perfection." But 
by that " wise and salutary neglect " he meant free- 
dom from the petty and short-sighted meddlesome- 
ness of a paternal government; he meant being 
left to follow untrammelled the instincts of our 
genius under the guidance of our energy. The 
same causes have gone on ever since working the 
same marvels. Those marvels have been due in 
part to our political system. But there were other 
circumstances tending to stimulate personal energy 
and enterprise, especially land to be had for the 
taking, and free trade over a larger share of the 
earth's surface peopled by thriving and intelligent 
communities than had ever been enjoyed elsewhere. 
I think, however, that there was one factor more 
potent than any other, or than all others together. 
Before we brdke away from the mother country 
politically, a century and a half of that " wise neg- 
lect " of which Burke spoke had thoroughly made 
over again and Americanized all the descendants 
of the earlier settlers, and these formed the great 
bulk of the population. The same process was rap- 
idly going on in the more recent immigrants. So 
thorough had this process been that many, perhaps 
most, of the refugees who, during or after the Rev- 
olutionary War, went to England, or home, as they 
fondly called it, found themselves out of place and 


unhappy there. The home they missed was that 
humane equality, not of condition or station, but of 
being and opportunity, which by some benign influ- 
ence of the place had overcome them here, like a 
summer cloud, without their special wonder. Yet 
they felt the comfort of it as of an air wholesome 
to breathe. I more than suspect that it was the 
absence of this inestimable property of the moral 
atmosphere that made them aliens in every other 
land, and convinced them that an American can no 
more find another country than a second mother. 
This equality had not then been proclaimed as a 
right ; it had been incorporated in no constitution, 
but was there by the necessity of the case — a gift 
of the sky and of the forest, as truly there as it 
now is in that great West whose history was so ad- 
mirably treated by Senator Hoar a few days ago, 
and whose singular good-fortune it has been that 
no disparities except those of nature's making have 
ever been known there. Except in the cities of 
the seaboard, where the habits of the Old World 
had to some extent been kept alive* by intercourse 
and importation, the defecation of the body politic 
and the body social of all purely artificial and arbi- 
trary distinctions had been going on silently and 
surely among the masses of the people for gener- 
ations. This was true (in a more limited sense) 
even of communities where slavery existed, for as 
that was based on complexion, every white, no 
matter what his condition, belonged to the privi- 
leged class, just as in Hungary every Magyar was 
a noble. This was the American novelty, no bant- 


ling of theory, no fruit of forethought, no trophy 
of insurgent violence, but a pure evolution from 
the nature of man in a perfectly free medium. 
The essential triumph was achieved in this tacit 
recognition of a certain privilege and adequacy 
in mere manhood, and democracy may be said to 
have succeeded before it was accepted as doctrine 
or embodied as a political fact. Our ancestors 
sought a new coimtry. What they found was a 
new condition of mind. It is more than question- 
able whether the same conditions in as favorable 
combination of time and place will ever occur 
again, whether equality, so wholesome when a so- 
cial evolution, as I have described it, may not 
become harmful as a. sudden gift in the form of 
dogma, may not indeed prove dangerous when in- 
terpreted and applied politically by millions of 
newcomers alien to our traditions, unsteadied by 
lifelong training and qualifying associations. We 
have great and thus far well-warranted faith in the 
digestive and assimilative powers of our system ; 
but may not these be overtaxed ? 

The theory of equality was as old, among men 
of English blood, as Jack Cade's rebellion, but it 
was not practically conceived even by the very men 
who asserted it. Here, on the edge of the forest, 
where civilized man was brought face to face again 
with nature and taught to rely mainly on himself, 
mere manhood became a fact of prime importance. 
That century and a half of apprenticeship in de- 
mocracy stimulated self-help, while it also necessi- 
tated helpfulness for others and mutual dependence 


upon them. Not without reason did " help " take 
the place of " servant " in our vocabulary. But 
the conditions of life led to other results that left 
less salutary effects behind them. They bred a 
habit of contentment with what would do^ as we 
say, rather than an impatience of whatever was not 
best ; a readiness to*put up with many evils or in- 
conveniences, because they could not be helped ; 
and this has, especially in our politics, conduced to 
the growth of the greatest weakness in our Amer- 
ican character — the acquiescence in makeshifts 
and abuses which can and ought to be helped, and 
which, with honest resolution, might be helped. 

Certainly never were the auguries so favorable 
as when our republic was founded, a republic sure 
from inherent causes to broaden into a more popu- 
lar form. But while the equality of which I have 
been speaking existed in the instincts, the habits, 
and obscurely in the consciousness of -all, it was la- 
tent and inert. It found little occasion for self-as- 
sertion, none for aggression, and was slow to invent 
one. A century ago there was still a great respect 
for authority in all its manifestations ; for the law 
first of all, for age, for learning, and for experience. 
The community recognized and followed its natural 
leaders, and it was these who framed our Constitu- 
tion, perhaps the most remarkable monument of 
political wisdom known to history. The conven- 
tion which framed it was composed of the choicest 
material in the community, and was led astray by 
no theories of what might be good, but clave closely 
to what experience had demonstrated to he good« 


The late M. Guizot once asked me " how long I 
thought our republic would endure." I replied : 
" So long as the ideas of the men who founded it 
continue dominant," and he assented. I will not 
say that we could not find among us now the con- 
stituents of as able an assembly, but I doubt if 
there be a single person in this audience who be- 
lieves that with our present political methods we 
should or could elect them. We have revived the 
English system of rotten boroughs, under which 
the electors indeed return the candidate, but it is 
a handful of men, too often one man, that selects 
the person to be so returned. If this be so, and 
I think it is so, it should give us matter for very 
serious reflection. 

After our Constitution got fairly into working 
order it really seemed as if we had invented a 
machine that would go of itself, and this begot a 
faith in our luck which even the civil war itself 
but momentarily disturbed. Circumstances con- 
tinued favorable, and our prosperity went on in- 
creasing. I admire the splendid complacency of 
my countrymen, and find something exhilarating 
and inspiring in it. We are a nation which has 
struck ile^ but we are also a nation that is sure the 
well will never run dry. And this confidence in 
our luck with the absorption in material interests, 
generated by unparalleled opportimity, has in some 
respects made us neglectful of our political duties. 
I have long thought that the average men of our 
revolutionary period were better grounded in the 
elementary principles of government than their de- 


scendants. The town-meeting was then a better 
training-scliool than the caucus and the convention 
are now, and the smaller the community the greater 
the influence of the better mind in it. In looking 
about me, I am struck with the fact that while we 
produce great captains, financial and industrial 
leaders in abundance, and political managers in 
overabundance, there seems to be a pause in the 
production of leaders in statesmanship. I am still 
more struck with the fact that my newspaper often 
gives me fuller reports of the speeches of Prince 
Bismarck and of Mr. Gladstone than of anything 
said in Congress. If M. Thiers or M. Gambetta 
were still here, it would be the same with them ; 
but France, like ourselves, has gone into the manu- 
facture of small politicians. Why are we interested 
in what these men say ? Because they are impor- 
tant for what they are, as well as for what they 
represent. They are Somebodies, and their every 
word gathers force from the character and life 
behind it. They stand for an idea as well as for 
a constituency. An adequate amount of small 
change will give us the equivalent of the largest 
piece of money, but what aggregate of little men 
will amount to a single great one, that most pre- 
cious coinage of the mint of nature ? It is not that 
we have lost the power of bringing forth great 
men. They are not the product of institutions, 
though these may help or hinder them. I am 
thankful to have been the contemporary of one and 
among the greatest, of whom I think it is safe 
to say that no other country and no other form of 


government could have fashioned him, and whom 
posterity will recognize as the wisest and most 
bravely human of modern times. It is a bene- 
diction to have lived in the same age and in the 
same country with Abraham Lincoln. 

Had democracy borne only this consummate 
flower and then perished like the century-plant, it 
would have discharged its noblest function. It is 
the crown of a nation, one might almost say the 
chief duty of a nation, to produce great men, for 
without them its history is but the annals of ants 
and bees. Two conditions are essential : the man, 
and the opportunity. We must wait on Mother 
Nature for the one, but in America we ourselves 
can do much to make or mar the other. We can- 
not always afford to set our house on fire as we did 
for Lincoln, but we are certainly responsible if the 
door to distinction be made so narrow and so low 
as to admit only petty and crouching men. 

A democracy makes certain duties incumbent on 
every citizen which under other forms of govern- 
ment are limited to a man or to a class of men. 
A prudent despot looks after his kingdom as a pru- 
dent private man would look after his estate ; in an 
aristocratic republic a delegated body of nobles 
manages public affairs as a board of railroad direc- 
tors would manage the property committed to their 
charge ; in both cases, self-interest is strong enough 
to call forth every latent energy of character and 
intellect; in both cases the individual is so con- 
sciously important a factor as to insure a sense of 
personal responsibility. In the ancient democracies 


a citizen could see and feel the effect of his own 
vote. But in a democracy so vast as ours, though 
the responsibility be as great (I remember an elec- 
tion in which the governor of a State was chosen by 
a majority of one vote), yet the infinitesimal divi- 
sion of power wellnigh nullifies the sense of it, and 
of the responsibility implied in it. It is certainly 
a great privilege to have a direct share in the 
government of one's country, but it is a privilege 
which is of advantage to the commonwealth only 
in proportion as it is intelligently exercised. Then, 
indeed, its constant exercise should train the facul- 
ties of forethought and judgment better, and should 
give men a keener sense of their own value than 
perhaps anything else can do. But under every 
form of representative government, parties become 
necessary for the marshalling and expression of 
opinion, and, when parties are once formed, those 
questions the discussion of which would discipline 
and fortify men's minds tend more and more to 
pass out of sight, and the topics that interest their 
prejudices and passions to become more absorbing. 
What will be of immediate advantage to the party 
is the first thing considered, what of permanent 
advantage to their country the last. I refer espe- 
cially to neither of the great parties which divide 
the country. I am treating a question of natural 
history. Both parties have been equally guilty, 
both have evaded, as successfully as they could, the 
living questions of the day. As the parties have 
become more evenly balanced, the difficulty of 
arriving at their opinions has been greater in pro- 


portion to the diflBculty of devising any profession 
of faith meaningless enough not to alarm, if it 
could not be so interpreted as to conciliate, the 
varied and sometimes conflicting interests of the 
different sections of the country. If you asked 
them, as Captain Standard in Farquahar's comedy 
asks Parley^ " Have you any principles ? " the an- 
swer, like his, woidd have been, " Five hundred." 
Between the two a conscientious voter feels as the 
traveller of fifty years ago felt between the touters 
of the two rival hotels in the village where the 
stage-coach stopped for dinner. Each side deaf- 
ened him with depreciation of the other establish- 
ment till his only conclusion was that each was 
worse than the other, and that it mattered little at 
which of them he paid dearly for an indigestion. 
When I say that T make no distinctions between the 
two parties, I must be allowed to make one excep- 
tion. I mean the attempt by a portion of the Repub- 
licans to utilize passions which every true lover 
of his country should do his best to allay, by pro- 
voking into virulence again the happily quiescent 
animosities of our civil war. In saying this I do 
not forget that the Democratic party was quite as 
efficient in bringing that war upon us as the seced- 
ing States themselves. Nor do I forget that it was 
by the same sacrifice of general and peimanent in- 
terests to the demands of immediate partisan ad- 
vantage which is the besetting temptation of all 
parties. Let bygones be bygones. Yet I may say 
in passing that there was something profoundly 
comic in the spectacle of a great party, with an 


heroic past behind it, stating that its policy would 
be to prevent some unknown villains from doing 
something very wicked more than twenty years 

Parties being necessary things, it follows, of 
course, that there must be politicians to manage 
and leaders to represent and symbolize them. The 
desire of man to see his wishes, his prejudices, his 
aspirations, summed up and personified in a single 
representative has the permanence of an instinct. 
Few escape it, few are conscious of its controlling 
influence. The danger always is that loyalty to the 
man shall insensibly replace loyalty to the thing he 
is supposed to represent, till at last the question 
what he represents fades wholly out of mind. The 
love of victory as a good in itself is also a power- 
ful ingredient in the temperament of most men. 
Forty odd years ago it would have been hard to 
find a man, no matter how wicked he may have be- 
lieved the Mexican War to be, who could suppress 
a feeling of elation when the news of Buena Vista 
arrived. Never mind the principle involved, it 
was our side that won. 

If the dangers and temptations of parties be such 
as I have indicated, and I do not think that I have 
overstated them, it is for the interest of the best 
men in both parties that there should be a neutral 
body, not large enough to form a party by itself, 
nay, which would lose its power for good if it 
attempted to form such a party, and yet large 
enough to moderate between both, and to make 
both more cautious in their choice of candidates 


and in their connivance with evil practices. If the 
politicians must look after the parties, there should 
be somebody to look after the politicians, somebody 
to ask disagreeable questions and to utter uncom- 
fortable truths ; somebody to make sure, if possible, 
before election, not only what^ but whom the candi- 
date, if elected, is going to represent. What to me 
is the saddest feature of our present methods is the 
pitfalls which they dig in the path of ambitious 
and able men who feel that they are fitted for a 
political career, that by character and training they 
could be of service to their country, yet who find 
every avenue closed to them unless at the sacrifice 
of the very independence which gives them a claim 
to what they seek. As in semi-barbarous times the 
sincerity of a converted Jew was tested by forcing 
him to swallow pork, so these are required to gulp 
without a wi*y face what is as nauseous to them. I 
would do all in my power to render such loathsome 
compliances unnecessary. The pity of it is that 
with our political methods the hand is of necessity 
subdued to what it works in. It has been proved, 
I think, that the old parties are not to be reformed 
from within. It is from without that the attempt 
must be made, and it is the Independents who must 
make it. If the attempt should fail, the failure 
of the experiment of democracy would inevitably 

But I do not believe that it will fail. The signs 
are all favorable. Already there are journals in 
every part of the country — journals, too, among 
the first in ability, circulation, and influence — 


which refuse to wear the colors of party. Alreailj 
the people have a chance of hearing the truth, and 
I think tliat they always gladly hear it. Our first 
aim should be, as it has been, the reform of our 
civil service, for that is the fruitful mother of all 
our ills. It is the most aristocratic system in the 
world, for it depends on personal favor and is the 
reward of pcwonal service, and the power of the 
political boss is built up and maintained, like that 
of the niediiuval robber baron, by his freehanded- 
ncss in distributing the property of other people. 
From it is derived the notion that the public treas- 
ure is a fund to a share of which every one is en- 
titled who by fraud or favor can get it, and from 
this again the absurd doctrine of rotation in office 
so that each may secure his proportion, and that 
the business of the ration may be carried on by 
a succession of apprentices who are dismissed just 
as they are getting an inkling of their trade to 
make room for others who are in due time to be 
turned loose on the world, passed masters in- noth- 
ing but incompetence for any useful career. From 
this, too, has sprung the theory of the geographical 
allotment of patronage, as if ability were depend- 
ent, like wheat, upon the soil, and the more mis- 
chievous one that members of Congress must be 
residents of the district that elects them, a custom 
which has sometimes excluded men of proved abil- 
ity, in the full vigor of their faculties and the ripe- 
ness of their experience, from the councils of 
the nation. All reforms seem slow and wearisome 
to their advocates, for these are commonly of that 


ardent and imaginative temper which inaccurately 
foreshortens the distance and overlooks the difficul- 
ties between means and end. If we have not got 
all that we hoped from the present administration, 
we have perhaps got more than we had reason to 
expect, considering how widely spread are the roots 
of this evil, and what an inconvenient habit thev 
have of sending up suckers in the most unex- 
pected places. To cut off these does not extirpate, 
them. It is the parent tree that must go. It is 
much that we have compelled a discussion of the 
question from one end of the country to the other, 
for it cannot bear discussion, and I for one have 
so much faith in the good sense of the American 
people as to feel sure that discussion means vic- 
tory. That the Independents are so heartily de- 
nounced by those who support and are supported 
by the system that has been gradually perfected 
during the last fifty years is an excellent symp- 
tom. We must not be impatient. Some of us 
can remember when those who are now the can- 
onized saints of the party which restored the 
Union and abolished slavery were a forlorn hope 
of Mugwumps, the scorn of all practical politi- 
cians. Sydney Smith was fond of saying that the 
secret of happiness in life was to take short views, 
and in this he was but repeating the rule of the 
Greek and Roman poets, to live in every hour as 
if we were never to have another. But he who 
would be happy as a reformer must take long views, 
and into distances sometimes that baffle the most 
piercing vision. 


Two great questions have been opened anew by 
the President : reduction of revenue, and the best 
means of effecting it, and these really resolve them-, 
selves into one, that of the war tariff. I say of 
the war tariff, because it is a mere electioneering 
device to call it a question of protection or free 
trade pure and simple. I shall barely allude to 
them as briefly as possible, for they will be amply 
discussed before the people by more competent men 
than I. I cannot help thinking that both are illus^ 
trations of the truth that it is a duty of statesmen 
to study tendencies and probable consequences 
much rather than figures, which can as easily be 
induced to fight impartially on both sides as the 
condottieri of four centuries ago. All that rea- 
sonable men contend for now is the reduction of 
the tariff in such a way as shall be least hurtful to 
existing interests, most helpful to the consumer, 
and, above all, as shall practically test the question 
whether we are better off when we get our raw 
material at the lowest possible prices. I think the 
advocates of protection have been unwise, and are 
beginning to see that they were unwise in shifting 
the ground of debate. They have set many peo- 
ple to asking whether robbing Peter to pay Paul 
be a method equally economical for both par- 
ties, and whether the bad policy of it be not all 
the more flagrant in proportion as the Peters are 
many and the Pauls few ? Whether the Pauls of 
every variety be not inevitably forced into an alli- 
ance offensive and defensive against the Peters, 
and sometimes with very questionable people? 


Whether if we are taxed for the payment of a 
bounty to the owner of a silver mine, we should 
not be equally taxed to make a present to the 
owner of wheat fields, cotton fields, tobacco fields, 
hay fields, which are the most productive gold 
mines of the country? Whether the case of pro- 
tection be not like that of armored ships, requiring 
ever thicker plating as the artillery of competition 
is perfected ? But the tendency of excessive pro- 
tection which thoughtful men dread most is that it 
sj^imulates an unhealthy home competition, leading 
to over-production and to the disasters which are 
its tainted offspring ; that it fosters over-population, 
and this of the most helpless class when thrown 
out of employment ; that it engenders smuggling, 
false invoices,, and other demoralizing practices ; 
that the principle which is its root is the root also 
of Kings, and Syndicates, and Trusts, and all other 
such conspiracies for the artificial raising of profits 
in the interest of classes and minorities. I con- 
fess I cannot take a cheerful view of the future of 
that New England I love so well when her leading 
industries shall be gradually drawn to the South, 
as they infallibly will be, by the greater cheapness of 
labor there. It is not pleasant to hear that called the 
American system which has succeeded in abolish- 
ing our commercial marine. It is even less pleas- 
ant to hear it advocated as being for the interest of 
the laborer by men who imported cheaper labor till 
it was forbidden by law. The true American sys- 
tem is that which produces the best men by leaving 
them as much as possible to their own resources. 


That protection has been the cause of our material 
prosperity is refuted by the passage I have already 
quoted from Burke. Though written when our 
farmers' wives and daughters did most of our spin- 
ning and weaving, one would take it for a choice 
flower of protection eloquence. We have pros- 
pered in spite of artificial obstacles that would have 
baffled a people 'less energetic and less pliant to 
opportunity. The so-called American system, the 
system, that is, of selfish exclusion and monopoly, 
is no invention of ours, but has been borrowed of 
the mediaeval guilds. It has had nothing to do 
with the raising of wages, for these are always 
higher in countries where the demand for labor is 
greater than the supply. And if the measure of 
wages be their purchasing power, what does the 
workman gain, unless it be the pleasure of spend- 
ing more money, under a system, which, if it pay 
more money in the hire of hands, enhances the 
prices of what that money will buy in more than 
equal proportion ? 

Of the surplus in the Treasury I will only say 
that it has already shown itself to be an invitation to 
every possible variety of wasteful expenditure and 
therefore of demoralizing jobbery, and that it has 
again revived those theories of grandmotherly gov- 
ernment which led to our revolt from the mother 
country, are most hostile to the genius of our in- 
stitutions, and soonest sap the energy and corrode 
the morals of a people. 

It is through its politics, through its capacity 
for government, the noblest of all sciences, that a 


nation proves its right to a place among the other 
beneficent forces of nature. For politics permeate 
more widely than any other force, and reach every 
one of us, soon or late, to teach or to debauch. 
We are confronted with new problems and new 
conditions. We and the population which is to 
solve them are very unlike that of fifty years ago. 
As I was walking not long ago in the Boston Pub- 
lic Garden, I saw two Irishmen looking at Ball's 
equestrian statue of Washington, and wondering 
who was the personage thus commemorated. I 
had been brought up among the still living tradi- 
tions of Lexington, Concord, Bunker's Hill, and 
the siege of Boston. To these men Ireland was 
still their country, and America a place to get 
their daily bread. This put me upon thinking. 
What, then, is patriotism, and what its true value 
to a man ? Was it merely an unreasoning and al- 
most cat-like attachment to certain square miles of 
the earth's surface, made up in almost equal parts 
of lifelong association, hereditary tradition, and 
parochial prejudice? This is the narrowest and 
most provincial form, as it is also, perhaps, the 
strongest, of that passion or virtue, whichever we 
choose to call it. But did it not fulfil the essential 
condition of giving men an ideal outside them- 
selves, which would awaken in them capacities for 
devotion and heroism that are deaf even to the 
penetrating cry of self? All the moral good of 
which patriotism is the fruitful mother, my two 
Irishmen had in abundant measure, and it had 
wrought in them marvels of fidelity and self-sacri- 


fice which made me blush for the easier terms on 
which my own duties of the like kind were habitu- 
ally fulfilled. Were they not daily pinching them- 
selves that they might pay their tribute to the old 
hearthstone or the old cause three thousand miles 
away ? If tears tingle our eyes when we read of 
the like loyalty in the clansmen of the attainted 
and exiled Lochiel, shall this leave us unmoved ? 

I laid the lesson to heart. I would, in my own 
way, be as faithful as they to what I believed to be 
the best interests of my country. Our politicians 
are so busy studying the local eddies of prejudice 
or interest that they allow the main channel of our 
national energies to be obstructed by dams for the 
grinding of private grist. Our leaders no longer 
lead, but are as skilful as Indians in following the 
faintest trail of public opinion. I find it generally 
admitted that our moral standard in politics has 
been lowered, and is every day going lower. Some 
attribute this to our want of a leisure class. It is 
to a book of the Apocrypha that we are indebted 
for the invention of the Man of Leisure.* But a 
leisure class without a definite object in life, and 
without generous aims, is a bane rather than a 
blessing. It would end in the weariness and cyni- 
cal pessimism in which its great exemplar Ecclesi- 
astes ended, without leaving us the gift which his 
genius left. What we want is an active class who 
wlQ insist in season and out of season that we shall 

1 " The wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity 
of leisure, and he that hath little business shall become 
wise." — Ecdesiasticus xxxviii. 24. 


have a country whose greatness is measured, not 
only by its square miles, its number of yards 
woven, of hogs packed, of bushels of wheat raised, 
not only by its skill to feed and clothe the body, 
but also by its power to feed and clothe the soul ; 
a country which shall be as great morally as it is 
materially ; a country whose very name shall not 
only, as now it does, stir us as with the sound ot a 
trumpet, but shall call out all that is best within us 
by offering us the radiant image of something bet- 
ter and nobler and more enduring than we, of some- 
thing that shall fulfil our own thwarted aspiration, 
when we are but a handful of forgotten dust in the 
soil trodden by a race whom we shall have helped 
to make more worthy of their inheritance than we 
ourselves had the power, I might almost say the 
means, to be* 



A NEEDFUL frugality, benignant alike to both 
the participants in human utterance, has limited 
the allowance of each speaker this evening to ten 
minutes. Cut in thicker slices, our little loaf of 
time would not suffice for all. This seems a mea- 
gre ration, but if we give to our life the Psalmist's 
measure of seventy years, and bear in mind the 
population of the globe, a little ciphering will show 
that no single man and brother is entitled even to 
so large a share of our attention as this. More- 
over, how few are the men in any generation who 
could not deliver the message with which their 
good or evil genius has charged them in less than 
the sixth part of an hour. 

On an occasion like this, a speaker lies more 
than usually open to the temptation of seeking the 
acceptable rather than the judicial word. And yet 
it is inevitable that public anniversaries, like those 
of private persons, should suggest self-criticism as 
well as self-satisfaction. I shall not listen for such 
suggestions, though I may not altogether conceal 


that I am conscious of them. I am to speak for 
literature, and of our own as forming now a recog- 
nized part of it. This is not the place for critical 
balancing of what we have done or left undone in 
this field. An exaggerated estimate and, that indis- 
criminateness of praise which implies a fear to speak 
the truth, would be unworthy of myself or of you. 
I might indeed read over a list of names now, alas, 
carven on headstones, since it would be invidious 
to speak of the living. But the list would be short, 
and I could call few of the names great as the 
impartial years measure greatness. I shall prefer 
to assume that American literature was not worth 
speaking for at all if it were not quite able to 
speak for itself, as all others are expected to do. 

I think this a commemoration in which it is 
peculiarly fitting that literature should take part. 
For we are celebrating to-day our true birthday as 
a nation, the day when our consciousness of wider 
interests and larger possibilities began. All that 
went before was birth-throes. The day also recalls 
us to a sense of something to which we are too in- 
different. I mean that historic continuity, which, 
as a factor in moulding national individuality, is 
not only powerful in itself, but cumulative in its 
operation. In one of these literature finds the soil, 
and in the other the climate, it needs. Without 
the stimulus of a national consciousness, no litera- 
ture could have come into being ; under the condi- 
tions in which we then were, none that was not 
parasitic and dependent. Without the continuity 
which slowly incorporates that consciousness in the 


general life and thought, no literature could have 
a^jquired strength to detach itself and begin a life 
of its own. And here another thought suggested 
by the day comes to my mind. Since that precious 
and persuasive quality, style, may be exemplified 
as truly in a life as in a work of art, may not the 
character of the great man whose memory deco- 
rates this and all our days, in its dignity, its 
strength, its calm of passion restrained, its inviola- 
ble reserves, furnish a lesson which our literature 
may study to great advantage ? And not our liter- 
ature alone. 

Scarcely had we become a nation when the only 
part of the Old World whose language we under- 
stood began to ask in various tones of despondency 
where was our literature. We coidd not impro- 
vise Virgils or Miltons, though we made an oblig- 
ing effort to do it. Failing in this, we thought the 
question partly unfair and wholly disagreeable. 
And indeed it had never been put to several na- 
tions far older than we, and to which a vates sacer 
had been longer wanting. But, perhaps it was not 
altogether so ill-natured as it seemed, for, after all, 
a nation without a literature is imperfectly repre- 
sented in the parliament of mankind. It implied, 
therefore, in our case the obligation of an illustri- 
ous blood. 

With a language in compass and variety inferior 
to none that has ever been the instrument of hu- 
man thought or passion or sentiment, we had in- 
herited also the forms and precedents of a litera- 
ture altogether worthy of it. But these forms and 


precedents we were to adapt suddenly to ;iovel 
conditions, themselves still in solution, tentative, 
formless, atom groping after atom, rather through 
blind instinct than with conscious purpose. Why 
wonder if our task proved as long as it was diffi- 
cult? And it was all the more difficult that we 
were tempted to free ourselves from the form as 
well as from the spirit. And we had other notable 
hindrances. Our reading class was small, scattered 
thinly along the seaboard, and its wants were fully 
supplied from abroad, either by importation or 
piracy. Communication was tedious and costly. 
Our men of letters, or rather our men with a nat- 
ural impulsion to a life of letters, were few and 
isolated, and I cannot recollect that isolation has 
produced anything in literature better than monk- 
ish chronicles, except a Latin hymn or two, and 
one precious book, the treasure of bruised spirits. 
Criticism there was none, and what assumed its 
function was half provincial self-conceit, half patri- 
otic resolve to find swans in birds of quite another 
species. Above all, we had no capital toward which 
all the streams of moral and intellectual energy 
might converge to fill a reservoir on which all 
could draw. There were many careers open to 
ambition, all of them more tempting and more 
gainful than the making of books. Our people 
were of necessity largely intent on material ends, 
and our accessions from Europe tended to increase 
this predisposition. Considering all these things, it 
is a wonder that in these hundred years we should 
Jtiave produced any literature at all ; a still greater 



wonder that we have produced so much of which 
we may be honestly proud. Its English descent is 
and must always be manifest, but it is ever more 
and more informed with a new spirit, more and 
more trustful in the guidance of its own thought. 
But if we would have it become all that we would 
have it be, we must beware of judging it by a com- 
parison with its own imripe self alone. We must 
not cuddle it into weakness or wilfulness by over- 
indulgence. It would be more profitable to think 
that we have as yet no literature in the highest 
sense than to insist that what we have should be 
judged by other than admitted standards, merely 
because it is ours. In these art matches we must 
not only expect but rejoice to be pitted against the 
doughtiest wrestlers, and the lightest-footed run- 
ners of all countries and of all times. 

Literature has been put somewhat low on the 
list of toasts, doubtless in deference to necessity of 
arrangement, but perhaps the place assigned to it 
here may be taken as roughly indicating that which 
it occupies in the general estimation. And yet I 
venture to claim for it an influence^ whether for 
good or evil, more durable and more widely opera- 
tive than that exerted by any other form in which 
human genius has found expression. As the spe- 
cial distinction of man is speech, it should seem 
that there can be no higher achievement of civil- 
ized men, no proof more conclusive that they are 
civilized men, than the power of moulding words 
into such fair and noble forms as shall people the 
human mind forever with images that refine, con- 


sole, and inspire. It is no vain superstition that 
has made the name of Homer sacred to all who 
love a bewitchingly simple and yet ideal picture of 
our humar ^ife in its doing and its suflFering. And 
there arb Dooks which have kept alive and trans- 
mitted the spark of soul that has resuscitated nsu- 
tions. It is an old wives' tale that Virgil was a 
great magician, yet in that tale survives a witness 
of the influence which made him, through Dante, 
a main factor in the revival of Italy after the one 
had been eighteen and the other five centuries in 
their graves. 

I am not insensible to the wonder and exhilara- 
tion of a material growth without example in ra- 
pidity and expansion, but I am also not insensible 
to the grave perils latent in any civilization which 
allows its chief energies and interests to be wholly 
absorbed in the pursuit of a mundane prosperity. 
" Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth ; and let thy 
heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth: but 
know thou, that for all these things God will bring 
thee into judgment." 

I admire our energy, our enterprise, our inven- 
tiveness, our multiplicity of resource, no man more ; 
but it is by less visibly remunerative virtues, I per- 
sist in thinking, that nations chiefly live and feel 
the higher meaning of their lives. Prosperous we 
may be in other ways, contented with more spe- 
cious successes, but that nation is a mere horde 
supplying figures to the census which does not ac- 
knowledge a truer prosperity and a richer content- 
ment in the things of the mind. Railways and 


telegraphs reckoned by the thousand miles are ex- 
cellent things in their way, but I doubt whether it 
be of their poles and sleepers that the rounds are 
made of that ladder by which men or nations scale 
the cliffs whose inspiring obstacle interposes itself 
between them and the fulfilment of their highest 
purpose and function. 

The literature of a people should be the record 
of its joys and sorrows, its aspirations and its short- 
comings, its wisdom and its folly, the confidant of 
its soul. We cannot say that our own as yet suf- 
fices us, but I believe that he who stands, a hundred 
years hence, where I am standing now, conscious 
that he speaks to the most powerful and prosper- 
ous community ever devised or developed by man, 
will speak of our literature with the assurance of 
one who beholds what we hope for and aspire 
after, become a reality and a possession forever. 


A. H. 0. = A. H. Clough. 

Abana and Pharpari 1, 364. 

Abbott, Shakespearian grammar^ 4, 
108 n. 

Abderite chorus in the Andromeda, 

Abelard, Emerson before the <>. B. K. 
compared to, 1, 367. 

Abolition societies existed in Mary- 
land and Virginia in 1790, 5, 141. 

Abolitionists not the cause of the war, 
6, 203 ; their cardinal principle dis- 
imion, 204 ; also, 6, 201. 

Abstract ideas, Hazlitt on, 4, 85. 

Abundance of Chaucer and Xangland, 

Abuse unpleasant from inferiors, 1, 

Abuses to be protested against, 5, 14. 

Academic town. See University 

Accent in Milton*s verse, 4, 109, 112. 

Acddente, Italian imprecation, 1, 172. 

Accuracy and Truth compared, 6, 

Acephali, 1, 111. 

Achilles, chariot of, 1, 152 ; a boy with 
an eel compared to, 217 ; also, 2, 5. 

Acting, Italian, 1, 175. See also, 

Adam in Paradise, White's Selbome 
the Journal of, 3, 193. 

Adams, Charles Francis, on the atti- 
tude of America toward England in 
1869, 3, 253. 

Adams, John, J. Quincy's reminis- 
cences of, 2, 295. 

Adams, Parson. See Fielding, Henry. 

Addison, friendship with Dryden, 3, 
104 ; Pope's attack on, 178 ; answers 
an argument in favor of the Pre- 
tender, 4, 26 ; Pope's lines on, 45 ; 
Pope's relations to, 52 ; his charac- 
ter, 53 ; also, 3, 357, 363. 
on Italy, 1, 127 ; on English poetry 
of the 18th century, 4, 3 ; on the 
representation of common sense, 
the office of modem writers, 46. 
Cato, Voltaire on, 4, 17. 

Adhesiveness, the author's, 1, 51. 

Adrian V., Pope, in the Divine Com- 
edy, 4, 240. 

^schylus, his range narrow but deep, 
1, 365 ; 4, 261 ; Atalanta in Cory- 
don the theme of a lost drama, 2, 
126 ; like Shakespeare in his choice 
of epithets, 3, 51 ; his imaginative 
power, 6, 52 ; also, 2, 138, 286 ; 3, 

Agamemnon, the nurse, 3, 54 ; Pro- 
metheus, 39, 57 ; Seven against 
Thebes, passage cited, 54. 

Esthetic defects, connection with 
moral defects, 2, 91. 

Esthetics, Shakespeare's satire on 
the dogmatic variety, 3, 55; its 
problems recur in Wordsworth's po- 
etry, 4, 357. 

Affliction a cooler of pride, B(^r 
Williams on, 2, 29. 

Africa, a little mystery still hangs 
over the interior of, 1, 109. 

Agamemnon, 1, 263. 

Agassiz, Louis, anecdote of his first 
lecture ; 6» 9 ; also, 3, 240, 286 ; 6, 

Age, the respect for, diminishing, 6, 
137. <See a^«o. Old age ; Antiquity. 

Agrippa, Cornelius, on Dante, 4, 145 ; 
his visionary gardens, 397. 

Ague, Sir K. Digby's prescription for, 

Air, on a winter morning, 3, 283. 

Ajax, 2, 172 ; 3, 85. 

Akensiae on winter, 3, 266 ; his poo- 
try characterized, 266 ; Spenser's in- 
fluence upon, 4, 352 ; also, 6, 113. 
his Pleasures of Imagination, 2. 
143 ; 4, 3. 

Alabama trouble, the relations be- 
tween England and America caused 
by, 3, 252. 

Alban mountain, 1, 139; seen from 
Palestrina, 159. 

Albani, Villa, near Rome, 1, 214. 

Alberti, Leandro, on Italy, 1, 126. 

Alchemist visited by Edw. Howpw, 2, 
46 ; Coleridge compared to, 6, 70. 



Alchemy, John Winthrop, Jr., a 8tn> 
deut of, a, 4G ; Edw. Howes* letters 
on, 4ti ; Jonathan Brewster^s re- 
searches and correspondence with 
the younA[er Wiuthrop, 61 ; his rea- 
sons for secrecy, 55. 

Alciato ridiculed the evidence brought 
against witches, 2, 383. 

Alcott. Bronson, his favorite word dae- 
moniCf 1, 87. 

Aldennan, Iniighting of an, 1, 193. 

Alderi^l^te St., London, Massou's de- 
scription of, 4, 71. 

Aleatico wine, 1, 174. 

Alexander the Great, 2, 135 ; Pope on, 

Alexander, Kmperor of Russia, mem- 
ber of the Med. Facs., 1, 88. 

Alexandrines, 4, 304 ; Dryden on, 3, 

Alexu and Dora, 3, G4. 

Alfieri, a copy bouglit by Keats, but 
unread, 1, 'J3Q. 

Alfonso the Learned, 6, 118. 

Alischans, Bataille d% referred to by 
Dante, 4p 227 u. 

Allegory, defined, 3, 3G2 ; the Odyssey 
the true tyiie of, 4, 321 ; as prac- 
tised in Spenser's time, 324. 
of Gower, 3, 330 ; of Dante, 3G2 ; 
4, 185 n, 209 n, 210 ; of Spenser, 3, 
3(^2 ; 4, 322, 32ti ; of Bunyan, 322. 

AUibone, 1, 31(>. 

Alliteration, Milton's use of, 4, 97 ; in 
Spenser, 347. 

/Lllston, Wasliington, described, 1, 72 ; 
judged as a painter, 75 ; T. G. Ap- 

?letoii on, 75; hin work original, 
; anecdote of IiIh early pictures, 
3, 108 ; his picture of Elijali in the 
Wilderness, 4, 03; a/«o,6, 151. 

Almanacs, one compiled by Emerson, 
imagined, 1, 350 ; prophecies of, 6, 

Alph, the sacred river, 3, 285. 

Alphonso of Castile, 3, 24. 

Ambition, 2, 17 ; character of, in 
Wasliington AUston, 1, 77. 

America interesting only as a phenom- 
enon, 1, 49 ; 2, 270 ; 3, 244, 250 ; 
rapidity of its changes makes it in- 
teresting to the philosophic stu- 
dent, 1, 52 ; foreigners uncomfort- 
able in, because they find no peas- 
ants, 180 ; the country's heavy debt 
to tlie English Puritans, 2, 13 ; its 
slight encouragement of art and 
high scholarship, 152; its history 
lAcking in great associations and in 
interest, 273, 274, 276 ; Eugliflh his- 
tory belongs to it dejure but not 
de facto, 274 ; fame palpably a pro- 
vincial thing, 270; every day com- 
ing nearer to Europe, 278 ; the tra- 
ditions and significance of its past, 
3, 222, 246 ; a German beggar's dia- 

tribe on, 229 ; its democracy a men- 
ace to the old order, 232, 24S ; ma- 
terial pros]>erity a necessary foundi^ 
tion for ideal triumphs, 236; the 
Englishman's air of superiority in, 
238 ; patronized by all Europeans, 
'JiV) ; Maurice Band's caricature of, 
240 ; anecdotes of the bad manners 
of foreigners in, 241; the earlier 
English downright averston to, 243 ; 
.the growth of the young giant made 
Europe uneasy, 244; examined by 
the soci(dogists, 246; Leigh Hunt 
on, 247 ; tlie advantages of easier 
communication with Europe, 249; 
the silent preparatory work done 
here not evident to foreigners, 250 ; 
accused of infecting Europe with 
democracy, 6, 12 ; accused of lend- 
ing storms to Europe, 12 ; its past 
without spsthetic stimulus, 140. See 
also, New England ; United States. 

America, Spanish. See Spanish Amer- 

American ambassadors, 1, 198 ; 6, 240. 

American architecture, 1, 6, 196 ; no 
venerable buildings, 6, 140. 

American biography necessarily pro> 
vincial, 2, 272. 

American bo^s, 1, 60. 

American citizenship, its value depends 
upon the national existence, 6, 4Q. 

American Civil War, the debt of its 
heroes to Emerson, 1, 368; Car- 
lyle's failure to imderstand it, 8t 
111 ; 3, 247 ; compared with Ired- 
erick's wars, 2, 111, 115 ; its msto- 
rial greatness boasted of, 282; tiis 
problems it has left behind, 282; 
the tender memories it has left, 89 
221 ; English ill - mannered refer- 
ences to, 241 ; its influence on for- 
eign opinion of America, 246; 6. 
210 ; its effect on the character of 
tlie nation, 3, 249 ; 5, 160, 182, 21^ 
246, 254; hailed with enthnslasm 
by the North, 75, 178 ; 6, 188 ; tbe 
following reaction of despondeiKsy, 
6, 178; tlie great issues at stake, 
89, 167 ; its probable effect <m sla- 
very (1861), 91 ; McClellan's Report 
from July, 1861, to Nov., 1862, 82- 
117 ; the campaign of the Peninsalft, 
95, 104, 106; the importance of sav- 
ing Washington, 110; popular di»> 
satisfaction at McCleIlan*s delays, 
110 ; Pollard's and Greeley's hirao- 
ries of, 132 ; its real cause the habit of 
concession on the part of the North, 
146 ; the South fighting for what tbej 
believe to be their rights, 149 ; abd^ 
tion of slavery its necessary result, 
151 ; the nation to be the strtmger 
and more united because of it, 162, 
215, 234, 246 ; state of the war ip 
1864, 158 ; the change in ito ofajeot 



and character^ 167, 175 ; McClellan*s 
views on its conduct, 168 ; a radical 
policy forced upon the Government 
by the rebels, 169 ; the just grounds 
of apprehension at its beginning, 
179 ; its vast difficulties and contin- 
gencies, 180 ; the country's true war 
of independence, 192; abolition of 
slavery not the original object of 
the war, 196 ; efforts to confuse the 
public mind as to its origin, 201 ; 
the lessons it has taught Europe and 
ourselves, 210; loyalty and patriot- 
ism the only incentive of officers and 
soldiers, 211 ; the vices and mean- 
nesses of the people also brought 
to the surface, 212 ; great principles 
felt to be at stake in the war, 215, 
251 ; for the first time in history an 
army knew for what it was fighting, 
216; Moore's Rebellion Record^ 
246; slavery the original motive 
of the war on the part of the South, 
247, 250 ; the deep meaning of the 
war as a moral phenomenon, 251 ; 
the thoughtlessness with which both 
sides entered upon it, 251 ; the 
newspaper rumors, 254 ; the fruits of 
victory, 256 ; watched with breath- 
less interest by the world, 261 ; its 
deep moral issues instinctively rec- 
ognized by the North, 312 ; our true 
enemy in the war, 316 ; essentially 
a war between two different nations, 
316 ; the readiness of the young men 
to give themselves, 6, 155 ; saved 
us a country worth saving, 188. 

American civilization, the lack of per- 
manence and stability, 1, 125, 199 ; 
the possible political and social de- 
velopment of, 3, 235 ; its shortcom- 
ings and possible future dangers, 
251 ; the need of an increased num- 
ber of highly cultivated men, Q, 
171 ; danger of becoming absorbed 
in material prosperity, 227. 

American Colonies, the lack of unity 
and of great associations in their 
history, 2, 272 ; Burke's picture of 
their prosperous condition, 6, 202 ; 
due to a wise neglect on the part of 
the home government, 203 ; the si- 
lent but ste^y growth of a spirit of 
equality in, ^b^; their apprentice- 
ship in democracy, 205. 

American criticism, 6, 225. 

American culture, Emerson made our 
thought independent of England, 
1, 366 ; necessarily European in its 
■tandards, 2, 278 ; something more 
than labor - saving contrivances 
needed, 279 ; its provincialism, 279, 
281 ; value of European criticism 
to, 283 ; the cultivation of the im- 
agination necessaryi 6, 94 ; alsOf B, 

American currency, musket balls cur- 
rent in early New England, 6, 82. 

American great men, their statues in 
the Capitol, 2, 280. 

American hotels, 1, 19 ; 2, 71. 

American humor cannot appeal to the 
whole nation, 2, 278. 

American Indians. See Indians. 

American land-companies, 1, 172. 

American life, its hiurry, 1, 7 ; com- 
pared to a railway train, 49 ; its 
aimless luxury, 380 ; the novelist's 
complaint of, 2, 274 ; its disadvan- 
tages, 275; barren in the elements 
of the social picturesque, 284. 

American literature, likelihood of a 
future strength and flavor, 1, 113; 
the determination to produce one 
in the first half of 19th century, 2, 
148, 153 ; a grreat poet expected from 
the West, 149 ; his possible character 
discussed, 150 ; the characteristics 
of a national poet, 151 ; Emerson, to 
some extent, typical, 151 ; the con- 
ditions for the development of a 
g^at poet still wanting, 152 ; origi- 
nality and individuality not to be 
expected^ 152 ; the demand for a 
literature proportioned to the size 
of the country, 153 ; a national satire 
or caricature still impossible, 278; 
effect of the Revolutionary War 
upon, 3, 307 ; Daniel's prophecy of, 

Ambrican litbraturb: reply to a 
toast Apr. 30, 1889, 6, 222-228 ; ex- 
aggerated praise to be avoided, 223 ; 
may learn a lesson from the life 
of Washington, 224; the early in- 
quiries for, by the Old World, 224 ; 
its problem to adapt inherited forms 
to novel conditions, 225; the hin- 
drances to its development, 225 ; to 
be criticised fearlessly if it is to 
become strong, 226 ; the promise of 
its future, 228. 

American mechanics, their supremacy, 

American military leaders compared 
with English, 5, 215. 

American newspapers. See Newspa- 

American poet, the great, expected 
from the West, 2, 149. 

American political eloquence, 5, 49, 51. 

American politics and political condi- 
tions ; national feeling hampered by 
our division into States, 2, 280 ; na- 
tional feeling increased by the Civil 
War, 282 ; the problems left by the 
War, 282 ; the Federalists the only 
proper tories of, 301 : every political 
evil leaves its taint, 3, 236 ; person- 
ality and narrowness of, 5, 19 ; con- 
stantly in a state of transition, 20 ; 
the Constitution to be bent back to 



its original poBition, 36 ; the eane 
of perpetual couceaaion, 36, 143, 146, 
167 ; the absence of great questions 
in the half century before ihe Rebel- 
lion, 46 ; character and powers of the 
government, 48, 62, 63, 72, 147; 
value of our national existence, 49, 
177 ; the advantages of the federal 
system, 61 ; the relations of the 
States to the central government 
not sufBciently dwelt upon, 63 ; the 
privileges dependent upon the 
broad extent of the government, 66 ; 
the administration made prominent 
at the cost of the government, 138 ; 
the preponderance of Southern in- 
fluence, 142 ; the basis of represen- 
tation in the South, 143 ; the prin- 
ciple of coercive authority recog- 
nized in framing the Constitution, 
147 ; Jefferson's theory of strict 
construction, 148; Freedom to be- 
come the one absorbing interest of 
the whole people, 152 ; the streng^th 
of tlie government and people proved 
by the strain of the war, 182, 210; 
the general idea of party govern- 
ment, and of the subserviency of the 
executive, 184 ; the idea tliat states- 
manship does not require training, 
193 ; the administration represents 
the minority as well as the major- 
ity, 198 ; a profound common-sense 
the best guide of statesmanship, 
205, 270 ; the willingness to endure 
taxation in order to carry on the 
war, 210 ; loyalty and patriotism the 
only incentive, 211 ; the life of the 
state felt in every member, 212 ; the 
people the true leaders in the con- 
flict, 213; the United States the 
real country of poor men, 227 ; the 
advantages and disadvantf^i^es of 
universtd suffrage, 232 ; 6, 30 ; the 
absence of an idle class, 5, 235 ; effect 
of the press and telegraph on the 
national sympathies, 243; the peo- 
ple slow to adopt measures of 
doubtful legality, 255 ; confusion of 
mind in regard to treason, 255 ; the 
war measures of doubtful legfality 
justified by their results, 259 ; the 
worth of freedom discovered by the 
people, 261 ; public opinion a re- 
serve of power to the magistrate, 
262 ; the President's prerogative 
during the war and in ordinary 
times, 268 ; every inhabitant a sub- 
ject as well as a citizen of the 
United States, 276; the attempt to 
climb into the White House by a 
back window, 293 ; the dignity of 
the Secretary of State a matter of 
national concern, 295 ; the will of the 
majority always constitutional, 298 ; 
general absence of the mob element, 

901 ; the condition before the 
compared to Germany, 816; demo- 
cratic institutions inherited from 
England, 6. 16 ; the Buoceaa of de- 
mocracy, 24 ; the dangers of incree»- 
ing wealth, 26 ; security of property, 
26 ; succession of the Yice-Preeident 
to the presidency, 46; the difBcntt 
problems of the time, 97, 176 ; the 
two great parties from 1867 to 1887, 
183; the broom needed, 186; the 
need of continued patriotic devotion, 
188; the weaknesses and perils of 
democracy, 196; abuses easily 
sloughed off, 195 ; the duty of ex- 
amining the abuses, 199 ; the growth 
of bribery, 199 ; political cormption 
and trickery, 200 ; the Indepmdent 
needed to denounce these abuses, 
201 ; the conditions of our success- 
ful development, 201; the general 
satisfaction with our good luck and 
good government, 202, 207 ; the ab- 
sence of shortsighted meddlesome- 
ness of a paternal government, 203 ; 
the effects of free land and free 
trade, 203 ; the sUent growth of the 
spirit of equality, 204 ; how long the 
Republic can endure, 207 ; the Eng- 
lish rotten borough system revived 
among us, 207 ; the shortcomings 
of both parties, 210; the difficulty 
of arriving at their opinions, 211 ; 
the old parties not to be reformed 
from within, 213 ; the reform of the 
civil service to be our first aim, 214 ; 
the protective system, 216 ; the sur- 
plus, 218 ; the moral standard of our 
politics declining, 220 ; the need of 
active men to insist on moral ques- 
tions, 221. 

the Peoj^le. — Foreigners easily assim- 
ilated if Protestant, 1, 115 ; the i)eo- 
ple not corrupt, 5, 138 ; their patriot- 
ism,178; their activedevotion to their 
institutions, 211 ; the dangers from 
the population of the great cities, 
214 ; the American people an amal- 
gam of many nations, 310 ; distrust 
of the judgment of the people, 314, 
317 ; the change from an agricultu- 
ral to a proletary population, 6, 10 ; 
the difficulties and dangers of assim- 
ilating a large foreign population, 
11, 25, 97, 205; character of the 

£)ople and of their political organ- 
ation, 24 ; the people take their 
political duties lightly. 31 ; the pop- 
ulation homogeneous and American 
at the close of the Revolution, 203 ; 
the respect for authority stroi^ a 
century ago, 206 ; lack of political 
trsdning in the average man, 207 ; 
the problem of our foreign popula- 
tion, 219. See also. Abolitionists ; 
Civil service ; Coercion ; Congress ; 



Cuba', Democracy; Democratic 
party ; Emancipation ; Embargo ; 
Freedmen ; Fugitive slave law ; Im- 
migration ; Negro suffrage ; Presi- 
dent ; Reconstruction ; Republican 
party ; Secession ; Slavery ; Squat- 
ter sovereignty; State rights; Suf- 
frage; Tariff; United States. 

American public men, effect of fre- 
quent elections upon the character 
of our statesmen, 6, 19? 51, 137 ; the 
mistake of sending inferior men to 
Congress from the North, 135; the 
popular fallacy of the superiority of 
a man of low origin, 137 ; the alleged 
inferiority of Congress, 233 ; the 
character of Congressional oratory, 
265 ; our highest offices filled by short- 
sighted politicians, 318; character 
of the framers of the Constitution, 
6, 22 ; their solution of the practical 
question before them, 23 ; the states- 
man giving place to the politician, 
198, 208 ; conditions of the produc- 
tion of great men, 209 ; the advance^ 
ment of able men blocked by our 
political methods, 213. 

American railroads, 2, 71. 

American Revolution still regarded as 
an unhappy separation in Cambridge, 
1, 66 ; French officers' opinions of 
America, 3, 240 ; its effect on Amer- 
ican literature, 307 ; also, 5, 244. 

American scholarship formerly of the 
theological sort, 2, 153. 

American schools, their failure, 6, 170. 

American shipphig, 6, 187. 

American soldiers, 2, 286. See also, 
American Civil War. 

American towns usually in the hobble- 
dehoy age, 1, 6. 

American Tract Socixtt, 5, 1-16 ; the 
apologue of the hermit who became 
a king applied to it, 1 ', its present po- 
sition on slavery in the eyes of its 
founders, 2 ; it evades responsibility 
by appealing to its constitution, 2 ; 
character of its constitution exanv- 
ined, 3; the discussion of slavery 
not feared by its founders, 4; the 
condition that its publications shall 
** satisfy all Evangelical Christians *' 
considered, 5 ; logical absurdities of 
the Society's position, 5 ; its posi- 
tion on moral questions in 1857, 6 ; 
the Society afraid to remind the 
owners of slaves of their moral ob- 
ligations, 7, 9; the Resolutions of 
1867 an attempt at compromise, 8 ; 
the inconsistency of the Society's 

{>osition an occasion for scoffers, 11 ; 
ts public responsibilities, 12 ; tlie 
division a healthy sign, 12 ; the anti- 
slavery question a moral, not a po- 
liticftl, issue, 14. 
American village described, 1, 185. 

American yeomen, 1, 186. 

Americans, their enjoyment of anti- 
quity, 1. 6 ; 6, 137 ; nomadic in re- 
ligion, ideas, and morals, 1, 6 ; carry 
no household gods with them, 76 ; in 
what respect not Englishmen, 113 ; 
the peculiar charm of Italy to, 124 ; 
their attitude in England and France, 
124; an accommodating and verses 
tile people, 169 ; travel easily, 199 j 
twitted with not distinguishing be- 
tween big and great, 211 ; the influ- 
ence of Puritan descent, 2, 14 ; their 
self-complacent pride of ancestry, 
20; their dismay at having no na- 
tional literature, 149; the habit of 
estimating greatness by material 
measures, 281 ; a certain advan- 
tage in their shiftiness, 286 ; sensi- 
tiveness to criticism, 3, 231 ; neces- 
sarily misunderstood by foreigners, 
232, 250 ; deserve some of the sarcasm 
poured on them, 234, 261 ; what they 
have to learn in political matters, 
235; accused of being vulgar, 236; 
their use of English, 231 ; the imita- 
tion of English manners, 238 ; as oa- 
tentatious parventu i» Europe, 240 ; 
supposed to abhor privacy, 241 ; 
anecdotes of their disregard of the 
rudeness of foreigners, 2i2 ; an Eng^ 
lishman on the cause of their hos- 
pitality, 243; what their country 
should be to them, 24fi, 251 ; con- 
tinue to be treated as not grown up. 
248, 262 ; the moat common-schooled 
and the least cultivated people in 
the worldj 250 ; not to be treated as 
counterfeit Britons, 263; fond of 
compromise, 5, 9 ; said to be less 
apt than others to proflt by experi- 
ence, 239 ; their alertness and viva- 
city, 245 ; their character as devel- 
oped by the Civil War, 246; their 
small hands and feet, 310 ; bonds of 
sympathy with England, 6, 40, 60, 
68 ; good nature of, 42 ; faith in 
their good qualities, 46 ; their habit 
of giving away money during their 
lifetime, 96; their zeal in cdebrat- 
ing anniversaries, 137 ; said to find 
their own eountry unendurable after 
living in Europe, 172; find them- 
selves at home in no other country 
than their own, 204; the habit of 
acquiescing in make-shifts, 206; of 
necessity largely intent on material 
ends, 226. See aUo^ American pub- 
lic men. 

Americanisms, 3, 237 ; 4. 347 n ; 6, 184. 

Ames, Fisher, compared with Burke, 
2, 275. 

Aminonius, 2, 360. 

Anabaptists in England In 1668, 2, 39. 

Anachronisms in the drama, 3, 68 ; in 
Iiesaing's dramas, 2, 226. 



Aualofdes between tlie inward and out- 
ward world, 4, iW*. 

Analysis, evervthiuK subjected to, at 
the present day, 1, lUU ; escape from 
the evils of, 184. 

Anarchy, the rif^rht of, iuvolved in the 
issues of the Civil War, 5, W. 

Ancestry in luattem of the iutellect, 
1, 241 ; pride of, 2, ID ; the sif^niti- 
cauce of, 3, 240 ; Duute's pride of, 
4, 2U8 n ; fortimate aucebtora, 6, 
155. See aUo^ Heredity. 

Ancient and modem art, their due re- 
lation, a, VoS. 

Ancient lights, the lesson of the in- 
scription, 6, 1U7. 

Ancient Mariner, 3^ 217. 

Ancients, more social tlian we, 3, 201 ; 
their attitude toward life, 4, 412. 

Anoients and moderns, 2, 127. 

Anderson, Major, the first public offi- 
cer to do his duty, 5, 50 ; a court- 
martial sugf^ested for him by the 
President, iX) ; his forbearance, 72 ; 
also, 78, 80. 

Anecdote, its value in history, 2, 284. 

Angels, good and bad, Walburger on 
their power, 2, 354 ; Dante on, 4, 
242 n. 

Angplico, Pra, 4, 120. 

Anglicism, Dryden on, 3, 130. 

Anglomania, 3, 238 ; 5, 181. 

Anglo-Norman mind in matters of 
business, 1, 140. See oho, English. 

Anglo-Norman poetry, theory that final ; 
and medial e w^as not sounded dis- 
proved, 3, 344. 

Anglo-Saxon. See also, Saxon. 

Anglo-Saxon element in English liter- 
ature, 3, 314. 

Anglo-Saxon literature, 3, 320. 

Anglo-Saxon poetry essentially Scan- 
dinavian, 3, 320 ; its homeliness, 

Anglo-Saxons have deified work, 1, 7 ; i 
time precious in the sight of, 131 ; ; 
their character, 3, 310 ; their reli- 
gious instinct, 318 ; their sound po- 
litical instinct, 5, 218. 

Animal creation, its imchanging con- 
stitution, 3, 195. 

Animals, their weather-wisdom, 3, 

Anio river, its waters once dammed at 
Tivoli to overthrow the Romans, 1, 
133 ; seen from Subiaco, 183. 

Annals, 5, 121. 

Anniversaries, American liking for, 6, 
137; their suggestions of self-criti- 
cism and self-satisfaction, 222. 

Annual Register, 5, 241. 

Anthropology, its problems to be 
watched in America, 1, 52. 

Antigone. See Sophocles. 

Antinomian controversy in New Eng- 
land, 6, 142. 

Antiquariana compared to mminanta, 

Antiquity necessary to the growth of 
character, 1, ; a matter of c<nn- 
parison, 50; suapicions as to the 
value of discovenes, 211 ; the brow- 
sers among the vestiges of, 3, 47; 
the American relish for, 6y 137 ; the 
effect of geological discoveries on 
appreciation of, 138. 8w aUo^ His- 
tory; Past. 

Antony, St., of Padna, 1, 110. 

Antweri>t Carlyle's etymology of, 2, 

Apemantua, Tlioreau compared to, 1, 

Apirius, 2, 248. 

Apollo a witness in the case of the 
Furies v. Orestes, 2, 308 n; his 
power not in the girth of his biceps, 

3, 350 ; also, 4, 403. 

ApoBtleH, Milton on those who col- 
lected personal traditions of them, 

4. (a. 

Apostles of the Newness, 1, 303. 

See Transcendental movement. 
Apostolical succession of English po> 

etry, 4, 105. 
Apostrophe, its use uncertain in early 

printing, 4, 90. 
Aiwtbecaries the victima of Satanio 

pranks, 2, 303. 
Apparitions, origin of the belief in, 2, 

321 ; instances, 322 ; Lucian^a ophi- 

iou of, 322 ; ghosts in chahia, 823 ; 

Hamlet's lines on, 326. See aUo, 

Haunted houses. 
Appenzell, democracy in, 6, 21. 
Applause, the pulse of self plainly felt 

in, 1, 57 ; of Emerson's speech on 

Bums described, 300. 
Apples at the grocery in Cambridge, 

Apples of the tree of know]edg«, 

nearly every one now plucked, 1, 

Apoplexy, 1, 91. 
Appleton, Thomas G., on WasUngton 

Allston, 1, 75. 
Application necesfary to memory, 1, 20. 
Appreciation, mututU, 2, 219. 
Aqueduct near Tivoli, 1. 130 ; of the 

Ponte Sant' Antonio, 140. 
Archaisms, when permissible, 4, 347. 
Archer, Judge, in a witchcraft trial, 2. 


Architecture an element of patriotiam 
and of culture, 1, 7. See ahOf 
American architecture; Greek ar- 
chitecture : Roman churches. 

Architectural restoration, constroctiyo 
criticism compared to, 6, 121. ' 

Arctic regions, their icy privacy fai- 
vaded, 1, 112. 

Aretino, Leonardo. See Leonardo 



Ar^iment, Dryden's powers of, 3, 

Ariosto, and the Villa d* Este, 1, 132 ; 
excelled by Spenser, 4, 320 ; charm 
of his narrative, 6, 64. 
Orlando inspired Spenser's Faery 
Queerif 4, 299 ; quoted, 4, 328. 

Aristocracy, the principle implanted in 
human nature, 1, 2 ; in Boston in 
earlier days, 2, 290 ; represented by 
Josiah Quincy, 2, 310 ; incompatible 
with democracy, 5, 323; of New 
England in 18th century, 6, 155 ; the 
management of public affairs in, 6, 

Aristophanes, 2, 90, 106 ; 3, 64 ; the 
highest type of pure comedy, 2, 
130 ; the Frogs, 3, 50 n. 

Aristotle, Lessing's discussions of, 2, 
222; Dryden's Unea on, 3, 118; 
Dante on, 4, 203 n ; compared with 
Plato, 4, 254; on moderation, 5, 
321 ; also, 2, 174 ; 4, 153 n, 155 ; 6, 

Army personified in its leader. 6, 92 ; 
a great leader its chief strength, 5, 

Array officers chosen by popular elec- 
tion, 6, 30. 

Amo, River, 4, 118. 

Arnold, Matttiew, on Homeric metre, 
1, 291 ; on Shakespeare, 3, 37 ; ad- 
dress as President of the Words- 
worth society, 6, 100 ; on education 
in France, 6, 169. 
Merope, its lack of vitality, 2, 134. 

Aroux on cryptonyms in the Middle 
Ages, 4y 136 n. 

Arrivabene on the date of Dante's 
birth, 4, 121. 

Art, English race cares nothing for, 
1, 76 ; absorbed unconsciously, 113 ; 
George Sand on, 379 ; a principle of 
life its first requirement, 2, 138; 
the basis of Judgment in, 3, 55 ; in- 
stinct for it absent in the Saxon char- 
acter, 3, 317 ; the conception and 
form united, 4, 166; value of the 
study of, 6, 93. See also, Esthet- 
ics; Greek art; Literature; Paint- 
ing; Sculpture. 

Art, ancient, difiBculties in judging 
truly, 1, 212. 

Art, literary, its value, 2, 80 ; secures 
lowness of tone, 82. 

Art, works of, their life, 2, 127 ; their 
principles immutable, but to be ac- 
commodated, 131 ; often contain 
more than the artist put there, 3, 

Art galleries, torments of English- 
men in, 4, 12. 

Artephns quoted, 2, 53. 

Arthur, King, legends of, 2, 5, 359 ; 3, 
310, 320 ; 4, 231 ; the vacant seat at 
the Round Table, 263. 

Arthur, Chester A., President of the 
United States, character of, 6, 46. 

Artifice in literature, 2, 121 ; 4, 8 ; 
Pope its chief founder, 57. 

Artificiality of life, 4, 32 ; illustrated 
by the etfect of disguises, 1, 78. 

Artillery-election days, 1, 58. 

Artist, his character expressed in his 
eyes, 1, 73 ; conditions of his work in 
America thirty years ago, 76 ; dis- 
tinguished from the Moralist, 4, 165. 

Artists, English, in Italy,* 1, 76; wel- 
comed by Italian peasauts, 176, 178. 

Artistic nature, Spenser's definition 
of, 4, 313. 

Artistic sense wanting in Carlyle, 2, 90. 

Ascbam, Roger, on Italy, 1, 125; 4, 
26 ; on care of language, 3, 6. 

Aspiration the ideal of Christian life, 

Assimilation, rapid, value of the power, 
3, 137 n. 

Associations, 3, 223 ; their power felt 
in buildings and landscapes, 6, 139. 

Assonance in Homer, 1, 292 ; MUton's 
use of, 4, 97. 

Assurance of faith. Captain Underbill's 
account of, 2, 58. 

Assyrian inscriptions, 1, 40. 

Astral spirits, 2, 322 n. 

Atheuaeus, 2, 292. 

Athenodorus and the haunted house, 
Pliny's story, 2, 323. 

Athens, 2, 278 ; its place in the world 
of thought, 6, 174. 

Athens, American, political appropri- 
ateness of the name, 2, 289. 

Atlanta, taking of, effect on Demo- 
cratic politics, 6, 161. 

Aubrey on the alleged transportation 
of witches, 2, 354. 

Auchinleck on Cromwell, 4, 73. 

Audience, Emerson's, described, 1, 

Augustine, St., Bishop of Hippo, his 
confessions, 2, 261 ; on Rome, 4, 
241 ; Dante on, 181. 

Augustine, St., Archbp. of Canter- 
bury, on sorceresses in the Alps, 2, 

Aureole seen in both summer and win- 
ter, 3, 288. 

Ausonius, 3, 306. 

Austria, the various classes in, in 1546, 
6, 14 ; taxation in, in 1546, 14 n. 

Austrian peasants, 6, 14. 

Authority, 3, 248 ; decline of rever- 
ence for it, 6, 31 ; the respect for it 
a century ago, 206. 

Authors, their first appearance after 
publication of a book described, 1, 
260 ; lucky authors, 302 ; the repa- 
ration that time brings to obscure 
authors, 314 ; the pathos of obscu- 
rity, 316 ; their characteristics to be 
traced in their earliest works, 2, 84 ,* 



miraries of profenional authorship, 

Autobioffnphy, sincerity and absence 
of self-i'ouHciouBiieiis uecesaary to, 2, 

. 2(»; value of, 6, i)l. 

Autocracy, 6, 193. 

Autumn, 3, 25U. 

Autumn of the world*8 life, 1, 141. 

Autumn colors, 3, 222. 

Avalanches, 5, 31. 

Averafi^, Buckle's doctrine of, applied 
to the relief of beggars, 3, 22U. 

Bacchus Sabaxiiis, the origin of the 
witches' Sabbath, 2, 317. 

Bach, Sebahtian, 1, 101. 

Background, want of, in America, 1, 

Backwoodsmen. See Woodmen. 

Bacon, Frau(!is, Lord, his definition 
of poetry, 2, !')(> ; Iiis language, 3, 
12 n ; di8tru8ted Phiglinh, 10 ; his 
times, 10 ; on wars, 6, 20 ; on read- , 
iug, 90 ; on the ability of learned 
men in p<tlitics, 192. 
Bcu Jonsou on, 1, 300 ; 3, 16. 

Baden Revolution, 3, 227. 

Baggage. 1, 28 ; its safety in the Maine 
woods, 39. I 

Bak&la, Wallachinn legend of, 6, 85. ! 

Balbo, bis loose way of writing history, 
4, 133 n ; on Dante, 134 ; on the 
large number of MS. copies of the 
iJir. Com. 143. 

Ballad poetry, Addison's praise of, 4, 
3 ; Scottish, 208 ; of the 16th cen- 
tury, 275. 

Ballot. See Suffrage. 

Bancroft, George, as a teacher in Har- 
vard College, 6, 150 ; his translation 
of Heereu, 157. 

Bandit hats, 1, 178. 

Banks, General, 3, 226. 

Bapson, Ebenezer, 2, 373. 

Barataria, 1, 72. 

Bnrber, his tripod an oracle of news, 
1, 58. 

Barber's shop in Cambridge, 1, 01. 

Barberiui Palace, in Palestrina, 1, 

Barbour's Brus, 4, 269 ; quoted, 270. 

Barclay on Englishmen, 4, 12. 

Bargain-making in Italy, \. 147, 149. 

Barlow, Joel, 2, 153 ; the Columbiad^ 
3, 300 ; 6, 04. 

Barmecide feasts of the Imagination, 

Barn-door, the picture seen through, 
1, 18(5. 

Banium, P. T., 1, 48 ; 2, 282 ; 3, 241. 

Barnwell^ George, a tragedy. 8e^ 

Barrel-organ style of English poetry, 
1, 245. 

Barrett, Mr., Mayor of Washington, 

Barter, the characteriatic of one's 
dealings with strangers, 1, 20. 

Bartolommeo, Fra, 4, 120. 

Barton, Mrs., her confeaaion of witob- 
craft, 2, 342. 

Batteux, Abb^, criUciaed by Leadng, 
2, 199. 

Battles, Mrs., rules for whist, 3. 273b 

Battles and conquests of Old World, 
2t 1 : their real declsiveneas, 6, 131. 

Battledoor and shuttlecock atyle of 
dialogue, 2, 137. 

Baxter believed in witchcraft, 2, 877 ; 
on the confession of witchcraft by 
a parson, 392. 

Bayle, Voltaire on, 4, 122. 

Beard not worn in old Cambridge 
days, 1, 90. 

Boards, English, 1, 199. 

Beatrice. See Dante. 

Beauclerk, Topham, 2, 236. 

Beaumont, Sir George, (m Words- 
worth's politics, 4, 367 : hia friend- 
ship with Wordsworth, 387. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 2. ISO. 
Maid^s Tragedy altered or "im- 
proved " by Waller, 3, 167 n ; 4^ 14 ; 
quoted, 22, 24. 

Beaupuis, General, Wordsworth inti- 
mate with, 4, 364. 

Beauty diminished by ntiliiation, 1. 
202 ; an Irisliman's remark <m wluw 
constitutes, 204; the highest Uiul 
of, 2, 300 ; beauty and use in liter»> 
ture, 4, 165 ; Dante on, 188 n. See 
aho, Esthetics ; Art. 

Becker, W. A., 2, 135. 

Beecher, H. W., 5, 320. 

Beefsteak, fried, 1, 8. 

Beer, spruce and ginger, 1, 00. 

Beethoven, 1, 356 ; hu symphonies, |^ 


Beets, 1, 60. 

Befana, 2, 358. 

Beggars, anecdote of an exemplary 
bow from one, 1, 99 ; the nmumoe 
of their life, 3. 225 ; theh: imagin- 
ary journeys, 225 ; their encounge- 
ment a sin against sociebr, ffl6; 
proposal to ^prison, 226; oooh- 
pared to unaddressed letters, 2SB6; 
story of a German met on the Old 
Road, Cambridge, 227 ; hia opiniooe 
on America, 228 ; the fatal effect of 
administering relief to the first one, 

Italian, their howl, 1, 165 ; in Bone, 
206 ; their assiduity in doing noth- 
ing, 207 ; their demand for prolee- 
tion, 208; their deformities, 900; 
the regular fee, 209. See ala^ 

Bekker's Bezauberte Welt, 2, 11, 88S. 

Belief in every age dependent on what 
men see, 2, 372; changes of, not 
sharply marked, 4, 194. 



Bell and Everett candidates in the 
Presidential election of 1860, 5, 23, 
25 ; their prime object to defeat the 
Republican ticket, 27, 35. 

Bell-founding, 3, 15. 

Bellay, 4, 316 n ; on the introduction 
of new words, 346. 

Belmont, Augustus, speech at the 
Chicago convention in 1864, 5, 156. 

Benedetto, San, Convent of, at Su- 
biaco, 1, 183. 

Benedictines, their hospitality, 1, 144. 

Bennet, minister in Brightling, 2, 394. 

Benvenuto da Imola on Dante, 4, 138 ; 
appointed to lecture on Dante, 142 ; 
on the "second death" of Dante, 

Beowulf, on travel, 1, 44. 

Beppo, a rich beggar, 1, 209. 

B^ranger, 3, 304 ; 4, 266 ; 5, 138 ; sen- 
timent of, 2, 252 ; compared to Hor- 
ace, 3, 305. 

Bergerac, Peire de, quotation, 3, 310. 

Bernard, Governor, 6, 151. 

Bernard de Yentadour, 3, 303. 

Bernardin do St. Pierre ; Paul and 
Virginia^ 3, 64. 

Bernini's angels on the Ponte Sant' 
Angelo, 1, 190. 

Bertrand de Bom, 3, 303. 

Betham, Sir W., pedigpree of Spenser, 

Biagioli, commentator on Dante, 4, 
169 n. 

Bible, pronunciation of -ed in the Old 
Testament, 4, 92 ; Dante familiar 
with, 212 n ; its influence on the 
English language, 277 n ; Words- 
worth's better utterances compared 
to, 408 ; would be an incendiary book 
among slaves, 5, 5. 

Bill of fare at the inn in Palestrina, 1, 

Bills of exchange invented by the Flor- 
entines, 4, 118 D. 

Billingsgate, 4, 269. 

Biography, its essential materials, 1, 
218 ; treatment of adverse criticism, 
2, 113 ; its main hiterest, 287 ; the 
filling, 295 ; undue length protested 
against, 4, 58 ; the place of contem- 
porary history in, 61 ; necessity of 
distinguisliing between substantial 
personages and supernumeraries, 
62; should give the sifted results, 
not the processes, of investigation, 
62 ; Milton's remark on those who 
gathered up personal traditions of 
the Apostles applied to, 63 ; Words- 
worth on the proper limits of, 392 ; 
value of, for reading, 6, 91. See 
cUso, American biography ; Autobi- 

Birch, its place in education, 2, 298. 

Birchen bark as an educational tonic, 

Bird in the bush worth two in the 
hand, 1, 111 ; 2, 14. 

Bird of paradise, 1, 112. 

Bird-nesting, 3, 217. 

Birds (My Garden Acquaintance), 
3, 192-219 ; GUbert White's obser- 
vations on, 193; the author's mS- 
moires pour servir^ 198 ; weather- 
wisdom of birds, 198 ; their mi- 
grations, 199 ; their geographical 
partialities, 200; relations between 
different species, 205; sentimental 
in the pairing season, 208; most 
common in the neighborhood oi 
man, 212 ; various bird-songs, 213 ; 
disappearance of certain birds from 
the neighborhood, 215 ; the pleasure 
in the company and friendship of 
birds, 218 ; seen in winter, 287. 

Special kinds, viz. — 

blackbird, European, 3, 213. 

bluebird, 3, 287. 

blue-jays, 3f 288; driven away by 
robms, 206 ; accident in a nest 
of, 206 ; trapped in the snow-crust, 

bobolink, 3, 211 ; verses on, 1, 55. 

catbirds, 3, 201, 204; destroy the 
nest of some yellow-birds, 205. 

cedar-bird, 3, 200. 

chic'kadee, 3, 288. 

chip-bird, 3, 214. 

chimney swallow. See Swift. 

cockatoo in the Cambridge barber*a 
shop, 1, 62. 

cross-bills, 3, 199. 

crow as a lover, 3, 209. 

crow-blackbird, 3, 208. 

cuckoo, 3, 214, 218. 

ducks, summer, 3, 216. 

fish-hawk, 1, 30. 

flicker, or yellow-hammer, 3, 214. 

geese, wild, 3, 199. 

golden robin. See Oriole. 

goldfinch, 3, 213. 

grosbeak, rose-breasted, 3, 200. 

hawk. See Hen-hawk ; Night-hawk. 

hen-hawk, 3, 215. 

herons, 3, 216. 

house-martins, 3, 193. 

hummhig-birdis, 3, 199, 210. 

indigo-bird, 3, 213. 

king-bird, 3, 200. 

kingfisher, 1, 30 ; 3, 216. 

larks on the road to Cavi, 1, 163 ; 
Dante*s lines on, 316; Dryden's 
and Jeremy Taylor's description of 
their flight, 3, 121 ; the Troubadours 
compared to, 303 ; Pope's lines on, 

linnets, 3* 199. 

loons, 1, 16. 

mavis, 3, 201. 

night-hawk, 3, 215. 

nightingales, 3. 213; heard at Go- 
louna, 1, 156; at Subiaco, 183; 



Dunbar*8 lines on, 4, 2G8 ; heard in 
Greece, 6, 139' 
nuthatch, 3, 287. 
oriole, 3, 2U9, 213. 

owls, 3, 215 ; Gilbert White's inti- 
macy with, 194 ; a Persian poet on, 
4, 114; Wordsworth on, 372. See 
(UMf Screech-owL 
pewees, 3, 217. 
pigeon, wild, 3, 215. 
pigeon-woodpecker. See Flicker, 
plover, stilted, Gilbert White's obser- 
vations on, 3, 194. 
quail, 3, 214. 

raven, dedicated to Satan, 2, 348. 
robin, 3, 287 ; seen iu whiter, 200 ; 
his song, 200, 202 ; taste for fruit, 
201 ; cunning and self-confidence, 
203; presence in the garden, 203; 
drives away blue-jays, 20G; and 
crow-blackbirds, 208. 
robin, golden. See Oriole, 
rooks, Gilbert White's observations 
on, 3, 193. 
screech-owl, his cry, 3, 203 n. 
snow-bird, 3, 288. 
song-sparrow, 3, 199. 
sparrows, 3, 213. 
swallows, 1, 185 ; 3, 215. 
swifts, or chiumey-swallows, 3, 199, 

thrush, brown, 3, 204. 
thrush, Wilson's, 3, 217, 218. 
woodcock, 3, 217. 

woodpecker, golden-winged. See 
yellow-birds annoyed by catbirds, 3, 

yellow-hammer. See Flicker. 
Birkenhead, wreck of, 3, 238. 
Birkett, Mrs. Anne Wordsworth's first 

teacher, 4, 358. 
Birmingham, 6, 19. 
Birth, pride of. See Ancestry. 
Birtliplace, its peculiar and inalienable 

virtue, 1, 51. 
Bishop, Anne, witch, 2, 340. 
Bishops, dumb, 1, 110. 
Bismarck, Prince, 6, 208. 
Blackburn the painter, 1, 75. 
Blacklock, Dr., Latinisms of, 3, 184. 
Blake, William, on Chaucer's charac- 
ters, 3, 358. 
Blanc, Mont, 1, 48. 

Blank verse, 4, 23, 112, 113; Dry- 
den on, 3, 137 n, 155; its difficulty, 
Blocksberg, favorite place for witches' 

orgies, 2, 352. 
Blokula, the place of meeting of Swe- 
dish witches, 2, 353 n. 
Blondin, a suitable candidate for the 

Democrats in 18G4, 6, 157. 
Bloomer costume, 1, 40. 
Bloomfield, 3, 200. 
Bloomsbury, 3» 239. 

Blue-jays. See under Birda. 

Bobbui-Boy, 3, 226. 

Boccaccio, smoothness of his verse, 3, 
349; appointed lecturer on Dante, 
4, 142 ; his life of Dante untrust- 
worthy, 191 n ; on Dante, 121, 
135 u, 138, 190 n, 222 n ; on Card- 
inal Poggetto's desire to bum the 
bones of Dante, 141 ; alsOt 3. 364 : 

Bodin on the witchcraft of Abel de la 
Rue, 2, 338 : on the identity of the 
Devil and Pan, 347 ; on the trans- 
portation of witches through the air, 
353; on the fable of Circe, 360; 
on the torturing of witches, 379 ; 
justifies falsehood to a witch, 379 ; 
favors burning as the punishment 
of witchcraft, 380; on Wierus's 
work, 383 ; his unsciiipulousness, 
389; on the doings of evil spirits, 
393; a/50,361, 375. 

Bodmer, 2, 218 ; publishes the Nibe- 
lungen Lied, 4, 6. 

Body, the, compared to a lamp of fin- 
est clay, 1, 73. 

Boethius, 4, 181. 

Boetius, 2, 322. 

Bottiger supplied Goethe with facts, 

Boileau, Keats on, 3, 98 ; Dryden on, 
99 ; his school critical not creative, 

Bolingbroke, affected indifference to 
the world in his correspondence, 4, 
28 ; the St. John of Pope's gospel in 
the Essay on Man, 38. 

Bolivar, the '' liberator of the world of 
Columbus," 2, 283. 

Bologna, Dante's connection with, 4. 

Bolton, Edmund, on Daniel, 4, 280 n. 

Bonaparte, Lucieu, his Charlemagne, 

Bonaparte, Napoleon. See Napo- 
leon I. 

Bonhomme Richard. See Jones, Paul. 

Boniface VIII., Pope, in the Divine 
Comedy, 4, 240, 245. 

Book collectors, 1, 248. 

Book making the last refuge of the 
unhappy, 1, 72. 

Book rarities, 1, 248. 

Books, sacredness of, 1, 250; Ire- 
land's Book-lover^s Enchiridion, 6, 
78; the comfort and friendship of, 
79 ; the real world created by the 
imagination in them, 80; Words- 
worth on, 80 ; the " good society " 
to be found in, 84 ; the wide range 
of character and subject, 85 ; the 
armories of human experience, 190 ; 
easier reading than some other 
kinds of printed matter, 192. See 
also, Literature; Reading; Old 



Books and ubbabivs; address at 
Cholsea, 22 Dec., 1885, 6, 78-98. 

Booths and shows at the Harvard 
Gommencemeut, 1, 79. 

Bordeaux wine, increased exportation 
of, 6, 9. 

Bores, the fate of, 2, 65 ; Nature's 
field of honest labor for, 3, 256. 

Bom, Bertrand de, 3, 303. 

Bomeil, Girard de, Dante on, 4, 210 n. 

Bossuet, 3, 185. 

Boston, the Common, 1, 3 ; formerly 
the front door of America, 98 ; in- 
troduction of Cochituate water, 203 ; 
its wrangle with New York, 2, 278 ; 
the character of its life and influ- 
ence, 289 ; the vicinity of the Col- 
lege, 290 ; the changes in its life, 291 ; 
Josiah Quincy as mayor of, 303 ; its 
literary supremacy, 6, 82. 

Boewell as unique hitherto as Shake- 
speare, 1, 74; his desire to visit 
Rome, 1!^; rescued from obloquy 
by Carlyle, 2, 87 ; kept company 
with Rousseau, 235; his letters to 
Temple, 261. 

Bosworth on the special virtues of 
Saxon, 3, 15. 

Bottom, the Weaver, 3, 319. 

Bouhours, P^re, on German culture, 3, 

Bounties, 6, 187. 

Bourdaloue, 6, 14. 

** Bourgeois" applied to a want of 
propriety in diction, 3, 125. 

Bouterwek on Don Quixote, 6, 126. 

Bowing, Francis Sales* exquisite bow 
described, 1, 98 ; three exemplary 
bows, 99. 

Bowles, Rev. W. L., 4, 54. 

Bowyer, James, of Christ's Hospital, 

Boyd, Henry, first translator of the 
Divine Comedy in English, 4, 147. 

Boys, American, 1, 50 ; public opin- 
ion of, true and discerning, 222 ; at 
play in the snow, 3, 281. 

Bradshaw on Chaucer's doubtful pro- 
ductions, 3, 296 n. 

Brahma, 1, 350 ; 3, 19. 

Brain, the supposed masculine and 
feminine lobes, 2, 271. 

Bran, its prophets, 1, 362. 

Brandellius and Mogusius, 2, 201. 

Brandy and lager-beer, the Dutch- 
man's distinction, 1, 127. 

Bravos, 1, 178. 

Breakfast in a hay-maker's camp, in 
northern Ifaine, 1, 38. 

Breckinridge, John C., candidate for 
President in 1860, views of the Con- 
stitution, 4, 24 ; his honesty, 6, 35. 

Breeches, Roger Williams refuses to 
sell them to the Indians, 2, 69. 

Bre'tinger, Oottsched on his Art of 
Poetry, 2, 218. 

Brentford sceptre, 1, 76. 

Brewer, the, in Cambridge, 1, 60. 

Brewster, Jonathan, his alchemistical 
researches and correspondence with 
the younger Winthrop, 2, 51 ; his 
reasons for secrecy, 55; on the 
character of the New England state, 

Bribery, its increase in American pol* 
itics, 6, 199. 

Brick blocks in Cambridgeport, 1, 7L 

Bride of Corinth, 2, 363. 

Bridge at Subiaco, 1, 181. 

Brissotins, 4, 355, 384. 

Britannia's trident, its advantages, 1, 

British. See English. 

Bronte, Charlotte — Jane Eyre, 4, 377. 

Brook, seen under snow-drifts, 3, 279 ; 
frost-work on, 285. 

Brook Farm, Emerson on, 1, 357. 

Brook', Phillips, contributions to 
Stanley Hall received through his 
hands, 6, 49. 

Broome, his part in Pope's Homer, 1, 

Broomstick, origin of the stories of its 
use by witches, 2, 356. 

Brossier, Martha, on trial for witch- 
craft in 1598, 2, 393. 

Brother, as a title, 1, 135. 

Brown hands, 1, 186. 

Brown, Tom, 3, 185 n. 

Browne, Sir Thomas, believed in witch- 
craft, 2, 387 ; his language, 3, 12 n ; 
pronimciation of -ed, 4, 92 n ; also, 
1, 249, 381 ; 3, 3 ; 4, 105. 

Browne, Thomas, of Middlesex, ac- 
cused of witchcraft, 2, 332 n. 

Browne, William, 4, 300 ; verses sug- 
gested by Spenser, 349 p. 

Browning, verses on St. Peter's, 1, 
200 ; his picture of an old king, 2, 
109 ; 6, 27 ; his increasing manner- 
ism, 2, 121 ; on creative genius, 6, 
54; a/«o,4, 369. 

BroMming, Mrs., Aurora Leigh be- 
longs to the physically intense 
school, 2, 122. 

Browsing, Johnson and Lessing both 
fond of, 2, 191. 

Bruce, Latinisms of, 3, 184. 

Brunelleschi. 4, 119. 

Brunswick, Duke of, appoints Lessing 
librarian, 2, 207. 

Bryant, poem on the Embargo, 2, 301 ; 
his rtyle compared with Milton's, 

Bryskett, Lodowick, on Spenser, 4^ 
292 n. 

Buchan, Lord, 1, 133. 

Buchanan, President, his administra- 
tion, 5, 43 ; his theory of laissez- 
faire, 47, 56 ; his fatal indecision, 
56; his correspondence with the 
South Carolina commiisioners, 69 ,- 



hia cabins, 81; a/«o, 4,78; 6, 41, 

62, 2yl, 2»7. 
Biickingliam, Duke of. See Villiers, 

Buckle on Burke, 2, 233; doctrine 

of averages, 3, 'J^ ; theory on the 

advance of mankind, 4, 254 ; hiu 

hiatorical method, 5, 124. 
Buddhist ceremonies, traces of in the 

Roman Church, 1, 200. 
Biirger, P/arrer'A Tochter^ possibly 

sufirgested Wordsworth's Thom^ 4L 

Buflfalo, Romish priests compared to, 

1, 154. 
Buil«lni(?-]ots, 1, 71. 
Bull, Jereiiiiali, 2, 64. 
Buncombe oratory, 5, 49. 
Bunker Hill, 1, 3. 

Bunyan compared with Spenser as to 
all^i^ry, 4, 322 ; the secret of his 
power, 322 ; a/«o, 2, 286 ; 3, 318 ; 

Burgoyue, General, his soldiers quar- 
tered in Massachusetts Hall, 1, 56. 

Burke, Edmund, his prose, 1, 246 ; his 
generosity of ** communication," 
371 ; the imagination in his works, 

2, 81 ; Lessing's debt to, 225 n ; a 
sentimentalist, 233; tlie character 
of his political wiftdom, 234; his 
hatred of Rousseau, 234 ; an inspired 
snob, 236 ; his style, 3, 130 ; influ- 
ence of his writings, 6, 79 ; states- 
manship shown in his writings and 
speeches, 197 ; harmonious working 
of his understanding and his imag- 
ination, 197 ; aho, 4, 80 ; 6, 12. 

compared with Fislier Ames, 2, 275 ; 

with Dryden, 3, 100 ; with Milton 

in political wisdom^ 4, 81 ; with Dr. 

Johnson, 6, 197. 

on Rousseau, 2, 232 ; on Sheridan, 

3y 121 ; on the condition of the 

American Colonies, 6, 202. 

Buckle on, 2, 233 ; Wordsworth on, 

3, 104 ; 4, 366 ; Johnson on, 6, 71. 
Burleigh, Lord, hostile to Spenser, 4, 

290 ; Spenser's allusions to, 291 ; 

a/.w, 4, 317, 325. 
Burlingrton, Lord, Pope's letter to^ 4, 

Burnet, Dryden's lines on, 3, 178. 
Bums, Anthony, 5, 69. 
Burns, Robert, Emerson's speech on, 

at the Centenary dinner, 1, 359; 

his sufferings from his biographers, 

2, 162 ; on snow, 3, 279 ; influence 

on Wordsworth, 4, 369; alw, 2, 

206, 242 ; 3, 304 ; 4, 270. 
Busby, Dr., 1, 264; 2, 106. 
Business prevents crankiness, 2, 9. 
Bussy-Rabutin, 4, 287 ; on winter in 

the country, 3, 262. 
Butcher without his coat, arrested for 

contempt of court, 1, 66. 

! Buti, on the date of Dante*B birth, 4^ 

, 198 n; on Dante, 206; on Dante's 
'* second death," 225. 

, Butler, Samuel, on poetical compoai- 

tion, 4, 25; Dryden on, 3, 138 n; 

Coleridge uu HudibraSf 6, 72. 

Butterfly, Spenser's verses on, 4, 810. 

Buttmau's Greek grammar translated 

by Everett, 6, 166. 

, Byron compared with Wordsworth 
and Keats, 1, 242; his influenoe 
traced on J. G. Percival, 2, 144; 
Moore's connection with, 2m; his 
admiration for Pope, 4^ 66; hia 
replies to Bowles, 65 ; Bpenaer'a 
influence upon, 352 ; alto, 2, 120, 
155, 237 ; 3, 179, 262 ; 4, 64, 871» 
on the sea, 1, 100; on the faUs ot 
Temi, 129; on Rome, 189; on ex- 
ecution as a te«t of merit, 4, 42 ; on 
Wordsworth, 388; on Fielding, 6, 

G = Andrew Craigie. 

Cabalists, 3, 9. 

Cactus, 4, 172. 

Cspsar both a writer and a waRioTa 

Calderon, fondness for slmilea and 
conceits, 1, 103; drama on The- 
ophilus, 2, 331 ; Diyden's JEvenit^ 
Love taken from, 3, 148; retaina 
always a provincial accoit, 6, 108 ; 
his dramatic power, 116; passage 
cited, 3, 53 n; ahOf 3, 66: 4 166: 
6, 72, 115. 

Calendar of Roman beggars, 1, 207* 

California, 3, 24Q, 

Calif omian, met in a tavern at FaMa* 
wampscot, 1, 188. 

Calling names, 5, 306. 

Calm at sea, 1, 101. 

Calvin, Rousseau trained in the scbool 
of, 2, 245 ; on monarchy, 4f 161. 

Calvinism, its effect on the charaoter, 


99 ; its characteristics and «n)ear> 
ance, 53 ; still a village, 63, 60 ; 8, 
220 ; the New Road, 1, 64 ; the tieea 
and churches, 54 ; the Charles, 64 ; 
the Old Road and its horse-chestniitty 
54 ; 3, 224 ; the Common, 1, 66; ita 
special peculiarities not yw gonn, 
58; institutions mora aataldiahed, 
58 ; Newman, the white-waaher, BO ; 
Lewis, the brewer, 60 ; the barber*a 
shop, 61 ; the two groceries, 68 ; tba 
town constables, 64 ; the two Sootoh 
gardenera, 65 ; the old court-honae, 
66; the twin Snows, the oyster 
men, 66; the sloop Harvard, 68;. 
the Port, 70 ; the Muster and the 
Comwallifl, 77 ; Commenoement 
day, 79; its street lamps, 3, 2M; 



the best spot on the hat>itable globe, 
262. See aUo^ Harvard College. 

Cambridge Synod of 1679, 2. 12. 

Cambridge University, England, Dry- 
den on, 3, 106 ; the spell of its ven- 
erable associations, 6, 139. 

Cambridgeport, a great caravansary 
rather than a suburb, 1, 70; the 
marshes bought by Bufus Daven- 
port, 71. 

Camenz, Lessing at school in, 2t 182. 

Gameronianism, 2, 73. 

Campagna, view of, 1, 139; seen at 
sunset, 146 ; railroaas out of har- 
mony with, 151 ; seen from the road 
to Cavi, 1G2 ; Gervinus on Shake- 
speare, likened to its underground 
caverns, 2, 1G8. 

Campaldino, battle of, Dante present 
at, 4, 127. 

Campbell, 3, 144 n ; on Pope, 4, 

Campion, Thomas, 4, 277. 

Canada, the journals recommend strict 
neutrality in 1861, 6, 87. 

Canker-worms, 1, 89 ; 3, 209. 

Canoec called birches on the Maine 
lakes, 1, 24; the felidae of water- 
craft, 33 ; experiences in a leaky 
canoe, 36. 

Cant defined, 2, 97. 

Cantii on Dante, 4, 166. 

Capitals, American, not truly so, 2, 

Captain, Dutch, L.*s story of, 1, 119< 

Caractacus. See Mason, William. 

Carbery, Countess of, Jeremy Taylor's 
description of, 4, 47. 

Cardinal and his attendants, a bow re- 
turned by them, 1, 99, 208. 

Caricature, the truth in, 3, 231. 

CarItlb, Thomas, 2, 77-119 ; gave 
the immediate impulse to the tran- 
scendental movement, 1, 361 ; his 
true connection with it, 363 ; the 
herald of the decease of Scotch 
Presbyterianism, 364, and the em- 
bodiment of its spirit, 366; com- 
pared with Emerson in the charac- 
ter and result of his teaching, 367 ; 
possibility of arriving at a just esti- 
mate of him, 2, 84 ; the bent of his 
mind illustrated by his earl^ critical 
essays, 86; his sympathetic appre- 
ciation of character, 86 ; his critical 
method, 87, 89 ; his humor ends in 
cynicism, 88, 89; Bichter's influ- 
ence upon, 88 ; tendency to con- 
found the moral with the aesthetic 
standard, 89: his lack of artistic 
sense, 90; his faults of style and 
thought traced to their root in char- 
acter, 91 ; his position as a moral 
and political philosopher, 91 ; his 
sentimentalism and love of the pic- 
turesque, 92; seeks his ideal in 

Individuals rather than in the race, 
92 ; his Hero-cure, 92 ; his treat- 
ment by Cromwell or Friedrich 
imagined, 94 ; the dominie spirit 
continually more obtrusive in his 
writings, 94 ; the increasing ex- 
travagance of his hero-worship, 96 ; 
his remedy for the World's failure 
to call for Hercules, 96; has only 
repeated himself since Sartor Re- 
sartujt^ 96 ; his cynicism, 97, 103 ; 
his limitations as an historian, 99 ; 
his epical treatment of history, 99 ; 
the vividness of his pictures, 99, 102, 
118 ; his lack of comprehensiveness, 
99 ; his want of impartiality, 100 ; 
narrative wearisome to him, 101, 
118; his accuracy of observation 
and description, 102 ; his demand 
of blind hero-worship, 105 ; the cud- 
gel theory of divine government, 
105; the intensity of his convic< 
tions, 106 ; dechne of sincerity 
caused by the struggle for novelty, 
108; his teaching, the ** literature 
of despair," 109; his choice of 
Friedrich as a hero, 110 ; his lack of 
historic insight. 111 ; the character 
of his passion for truth, 113; his 
skill in winning sympathy for a 
character, 115; a great poet in all 
but rhythm, 117 ; his belief in brute 
force, 117; his loyalty to reality. 
118; his value as an inspirer and 
awakener, ll8 ; his influence second 
only to Wordsworth's, 119; his 
power of pictorial narration, 4, 65 ; 
leads the reaction against modem 
civilization, 6, 250 ; also, 4, 867 ; 6, 
120, 123, 173. 
on the dissolution of Parliament in 
1656, 2, 34 ; on Boswell, 87 ; on 
Dr. Francia, 95 ; on Edward Irving, 
107 ; on America, 3, 234 ; 6, 26 ; on 
the Hohenzollems, 3; 247 ; on the 
Civil War, 247 ; on Dante, 4, 164, 
183 n, 205 n. 

Critical esmys^ 2, 85, 88; — Freder* 
ick the Great, 99, 110-116, 187; 
— French Revolution^ 89; — Mon* 
taignet 85; — Sartor Resartus, 1, 
361 ; 2, 88 ; — Schiller, 2, 116. 

Carnival, 1, 78. 

Carratella, a ride in, 1, 162. 

Carter, Miss, Wordsworth's fondness 
for her Poem on Spring, 4, 369. 

Cary, Henry, translation of the Divine 
Comedy, 4, 147. 

Cary, Jonathan, of Salem, 2, 394. 

Casella, 4, 125. 

Cass, Lewis, 6, 291. 

Caste in New England and Virginia, 

Castles in the air, 2, 93. 

Castor and Pollux of the oyster trade, 



Cofitriot, Oeorfi^, king of Epinis, 1, 

Cat at the inn in Palentrinit, 1, Kil. 
Catacombs, guides in, 6» T'''> 
Cataloffuea, library, 6, K): tbe au- 

tlior's first of liis librar>', 1, 'J49. 
Catliarine-wtieeln, Soutli American 

republics comi>ared to, 2, 283. 
Catholicism, filee Ronuui Catliolicism. 
Cato, 6, 1*27 ; ailvice in regard to 

companions, 6, 8G. 
Catullus, 3. 3()5. 
Caudine yoke, 6, 9* 
Cause and effect proportionate, 6, 

Cavalcanti, Ouido, 2, 80 ; 4, 180. 
Cavalier and Puritan compared, 2, 

Cavi, the ride to, from Palestrina, 1, 

1(^2 ; tlio streets of, 1G3. 
Cavi, Monte, its volmnic character, 

1, 140 ; seen from Olevano, 174. 
Cayenne, a place for red-peppery tem- 

porameiits, 6, 01. 
Cedars witli gray moss, in the moon- 

liplit, 1, 35. 
Celery, 1, 59. 
Celibacy, 1, 91. 
Cellini, Benvenuto, on ftutobiogra- 

KliicR, 2, 2(X) ; anecdote of his buy- 
oo<l, 3, 95 ; aho, 4, 124, 39S. 

Ceremonial, 2, 290; PhUip II. 's am- 
bassador on, 108. 

Certopa, 1, 59. 

Cervoiitcfl, his humor, 1, 278 ; 6, 119, 
129 ; his training, 2, 90 ; his univcr- 
saltty, 3, 26 ; analysis of complex 
motives in, 57; on translntion, 4, 
218 n ; his optimism, 6, 118 ; the fa- 
ther of the modem novel, 135 ; a/«o, 

2, 109 ; 3, IG. 

Don Quixote^ 6, 115-136 ; its place in 
the affections of mankind, 117 ; the 
book thoroughly good-natured and 
good-humored, 118; the dedication 
to the Second Part, 119 ; compared 
with Robinson Cruxoe^ 119 ; its 
moral, 120, 123; its pathos, 120; 
Don Quixote's conception of his 
mission, 1'21 ; transcendental criti- 
cism applied to, 122 ; Don Juan Ya- 
lera's objections to subtle interpre- 
tations, 122 ; Cervantes' purpose in 
writing tlie book, 123, 135 ; a satire 
on doctrinaire reformers, 123 ; the 
rescue of the boy Andres, 125; the 
objects of his benevolence come 
back to his discomfiture, 125 ; San- 
clio tlie practical man, 125, 126, 129, 
131 ; (5, 191) ; the liberation of the 
galley-slaves, 126; the characters, 
not realistic, but entirely lifelike, 
being idealized conceptions, 127 ; its 
humor, 129 ; the psycliologicnl truth 
of the hero's character, 130; tho 
key of his character, 131 ; the island 

which 8aricho Is to gorem, 182; 
conscience of Don Quixote and that 
of Sineho, K'S: the adventure of 
the f^iUtufr Mills, 133 ; character d 
Bancho, VX\ ; tho quality of the nar- 
rative, 134 ; the practical Jokee 
played on Don Quixote resented by 
the reader, 134; Dulcinea, 4, 200; 
Coleridge on, 6, 126 ; Fitzgerald on, 
IS.*); flr/«o, 2, 5; 6, 104. 

Chain, lengthening the, a favorite fig- 
ure with several poets, 3y 136 n. 

Cliairman. his privilege of speaking 
first, 6, 181 ; his true office, 181. 

Chamisso ; Pfter SchlemiAl, origin of 
tlie story. 2, 368. 

Chance, 4, 391 n. 

Change, perpetual, in tbe world aroand 
us, 6, 7. 

Changelings, general belief in, 2, 363. 

Chansons de Geste, 3, 310. See aho^ 
Romances of Chivalry. 

Chapman, his long sentences, 1, 217 ; 
effect of his translations on Bueats, 
224, 296; his diction and poetic 
depth, 277 ; his reverence for 
Homer, 290; a master of verw, 
292 ; his description of a virtuons 
wife, 4, 47; use of nak't, Baf*t, 
etc., 92 ; his spelling, 92 n ; also, 1. 
279; 6,72. 

on the moon, 1, 105 : on his tranda- 
tion of Homer, 2o8; on pedantio 
trnn^lators, 290. 

Biron^s Conspiracy and Tragedy^ 3, 
23 n ; — Hornet^ reprinted in tlie 
"Library of old authora,»» 1, 256; 
its merit, 290; the simfles, 291; 
the character of the Terse, 292; 
passages quoted and compared ^th 
Lord Derby's, 293 ; Hooper's edition, 
287 ; the shortcomings of the editor, 
296; the sea passages fine, 296; 
fine single phrases, 296; o/m, 3, 
275 ; Odyssey quoted, 4, 90 n ; Cole- 
ridge on, 1, 287; Dryden on, 3, 
136 ; Keats on, 4, 294. 

Character, it is cumulative, 1, 6 ;froia 
what it results, 219; Smerson's 
power a testimonial to the value of, 
S53 ; as rare as genius, and nobler, 
2| 171 ; Leasing on, 195 ; importaxire 
of, in a teacher of morals, 243; not 
concerned in a work of the high- 
est genius, 257 ; valued above talnit, 
257 ; influence of sorromidinga 
upon, 277 ; influence of democracy 
on, 287 ; Imowledge of it not gained 
by a too minute subdiyidon of faip 
gredients, 4, 62 ; its power in liter- 
ature, 261 ; influenced by company 
and by reading, 6, 86 ; a chief fac- 
tor in the course of history, 91 ; its 
importance in the regeneraticm of 
society, 103 ; alsOj 3, 188. 

Charing Cross, London, 3, 262. 



Charity, 6, 48; required in judging 
the doctrines of others, 2, 39i5. 

Charlemagne, 2, 110, 112. 

Charles I. of England, Marvell on, 4, 
70 ; Masson's description of, 70. 

Charles II. of England, 3, 118; 4, 
70 ; on the English climate, 3, 283 ; 
his French tastes, 4, 11. 

Charles V., Emperor, 6, 14. 

Charles XII. of Sweden, Pope on, 

Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, 
the interest attaching to, 2, 275. 

Charles River and its marshes, 1, 64. 

Charleston, 2, 289. 

Charlestown boys in Cambridge, 1, 

Charlton, Dr., Dryden'a verses ad- 
dressed to, 3, 118. 

Charon, 1, 156, 189. 

Chateaubriand, his sentimentalism, 1, 
100, 37G ; his attempts at suicide, 2, 
160 ; also, 237, 266, 271 ; 3, 262. 
on desiring misfortune, 2, 250; on 
Rousseau and Voltaire, 265; on 
Shakespeare, 3. 63 ; on the wilder- 
ness, 212 ; on Dante, 4, 144. 

Chatterton, Keats*s sympathy for, 1, 
224 ; Wordsworth on, 4, 4 n. 

Craucbb, 3, 291-366 ; the springtime 
freshness of his writings, 291 ; the 
absence of self-consciousness, 293 ; 
Occleve's portrait of bim, 294 ; the 
few facts of his life, 294 ; describes 
himself m the Clerk of Oxford, 295 ; 
the doubtful poems, 296 n ; the pub- 
lications of the Chaucer Society and 
of other authors, 297 ; his indebted- 
ness to earlier poets, 300; his iu- 
dght into life, 301 ; his debt slight 
to the Proven^ poets, 304; Nor- 
man influence seen in his work, 
321 ; a scholar, thinker, and critic, 
821 ; compared with Dante, 322 ; 
the true forerunner of Shakespeare, 
824 ; his structural faculty, 324 ; a 
reformer without cynicism in liter- 
ature and morals, 325 ; the English 
narrative poetry of his time, 325 ; 
his effect on the English language, 
828, 335, 336; compared with Lang- 
land, 330 ; his literary sense, 331 ; 
the charm of his language, 335 ; his 
Terse, 336; misapprehension of his 
verse by modern editors, 338; 
emendations necessary to restore 
his verse, 341 ; the theory that he 
did not sound final and medial « dis- 

S roved, 343 ; follows the Roman 
e la Rose in this respect, 345 ; lack 
of uniformity in tliis, 347 ; his rule 
to be deduced from hin musical 
verses, not from the halting ones, 
849 ; his power as a narrative poet, 
351 ; his fathetio passages, 352 ; his 
humor, 352, 364; hit o(nnbination 

of energy with simplicity, 353; 
compared with Shakespeare as to 
the action of the imagination, 354 ; 
his simple love of nature, 355 ; the 
continuity and oven power of his 
best tales, 355 ; his naturalness, 357, 
361 ; his epithets, 357 ; his charac- 
ters, 358, 364 ; his satire, 360, 174 ; 
his origiuality, 360 ; allegory not at- 
tractive to him, 363 ; the character 
of his work reviewed, 363 ; his per- 
sonal character, 365 ; Pres. Kirk- 
land's resemblance to, 1, 84 ; a 
sceptic in regard to witclicraft, 2, 
381 ; his language, 3, 12 n ; his 
knowledge of Dante, 4, 146 ; Spen- 
ser's master, 301 ; also, 2, 105, 113 ; 
3, 64 ; 4, 25, 155 ; 6, 108 ; quoted, 
3, 261, 336, 366. 

on truth, 3, 296 ; on inconstancy, 1, 

Dryden on, 3, 180, 293 ; Gower on, 
321 ; Coleridge on his verse, 340 ; 
William Bl^e on his characters, 
358 ; Spenser on, 365. 
Cantei'bury Tales, the device of con- 
necting them an afterthought, 3, 
297 ; the six-text edition, 297 ; Al- 
dine edition and Wright's edition, 
343 ; their happily chosen plan, 
364 ; House of Fame, 365 ; Monk^a 
Tale, 321 ; Romaunt of the Rose, 
language of, 11 ; Sir Thopas, 321. 

Chaucer Society, 3, 297, 343. 

Cheeriness of Francis Sales, 1, 97. 

Cheese with power to turn men into 
beasts, 2, 360. 

Cheever's Accidence, 2, 299. 

Cheiron, his autobiography imagined, 

Chelsea public library, address at the 
opening of, 6, 78-98. 

Chesterfield, Lord, on Dante, 4, 146. 

Chevy Chase, 1, 356. 

Chicago Convention of 1864, 6, 155. 

Chidley, Mrs. Katherine, Masson^s 
description of, 4, 70. 

Child, F. J., his Chaucer studies, 3, 

Childhood, recollections of, 2, 17. 

Children, all geniuses at first, 2, 259 
action of the imagination In, 819 
effect of teaching by rote, 4, 368 
their natural heathy desirBS to be 
satisfied, 6, 95. 

Chivalry of the South, 6, 80; made 
real in the verses of the trouv^res, 

Choice of words, 1, 245. See also. 

Chonis, Greek, its commonplaces, 2, 

Christ, Edw. Howes on the true idea 
of, 2, 60 ; Dante on his relation to 
the Roman Empire, 4, 152 ; brought, 
not peace, but a sword, 6, 10 ; his 



true MC<»id comini; heralded by the 
progreas of democracy, 310; the 
first true democrat and the first 
true gentleman, 6, 121. 

ChrifltlMi idea in Ktemture, contrasted 
with the Pagan idea, 4, 234 ; em* 
bodied by Dante, LH^. 

Christians, inconsistencies of, seized 
np<ni by scoffers, 6, 11. 

Christianity, intensifies self-conscious* 
nesa, 2, 13C ; revolutionizes Art in 
the Divina Commedia^ 4, ICl ; its 
histoij not concession, but aggres- 
rion, o, 10 ; its spirit characterized, 
15; its power irresistible, 16; the 
gains of eighteen centuries, 22. 

Christmas, the customs and feelings 
of the season, 6, 181. 

Church, the, its discussions out of 
touch with the World, 2, 217; 
driven to maintain its power by 
arousing fear, 397 ; Dante's view of, 
4, 244; the first organized demo> 
cracy, 6, 14 ; Wordsworth's attitude 
toward, lOG. 

Church and State, Dante's theory of, 
4, 163, 173. 

Church of England. See England, 
Church of. 

Church-going in Italy, 1, 143. 

Church-wardens, 1, 177. 

Churchyards, desecration of, Web- 
ster's lines on, 1, 285. 

Churcliill, an example of short-lived 
poptdarity, 2, 80 ; Cowj^r on, 80. 

Cibber, on the periwig, 3, 159 ; on 
Dryden's Rhodomontades, 174 n. 

Cicero, his twaddle about Greek liter* 
ature and philosophy, 1, 100. 

Ciceroni in Italy, 1, 134. 

Cid, Song of the, 2, 152 ; 6, 116. 

Cigars, Prof. F.'s practice with regard 
to, 1, 93. 

Cimabue, 4, 118 ; Dante said to have 
been his pupil, 125. 

Cinchona, its properties made known 
by Sir K. Digby, 2, 56. 

Cintra, Convention of, Wordsworth's 
pamphlet on, 4, 389. 

Circe, JBodin on, 2, 360. 

City in winter, 3, 284. 

City and country, Cowper on, 3, 269. 

Cities, failure of universal suffrage in, 
6. 11 ; democracy in small cities, 
23 ; the dangers of, from ignorance 
and poverty, 25. 

Citizenship. See American citizen- 

Civil service, the shortcomings of the 
spoils system and the absurd de- 
ductions from it, 6, 214 ; the abuses 
to be rooted out at their origin, 

Civil war, an impartial history of, im- 
jDoseible, 6| 131 ; American ideas of, 

Civil War. American* Bee AmerlcM 
Civil War. 

Civilixation, the decay of, 6, 810 ; the 
means of its progress. 6, 172: Ita 
moral and its a«thetlc elements, 
173; the need of cultivated men, 
174 ; literature as a mark of, 228. 
See also^ American civiUaatlon ; Cul« 
ture ; Progress ; Bodety. 

Civilized man confronted with the 
forest solitudes and with bis real 
self, 2, 6. 

Civita Vecchia, proposed raflroad to, 
1, 160 ; quarrtu between an Italian 
landing and the custom-house offi- 
cer, 168; the road from, to Rome, 

Clark, Sir James, Keata's phyrieian at 
Rome, 1, 239. 

Clarke, Charles Cowden, of Enfield, 
John Keats at his school, 1, 221; 
lent Keats Spenser, 228. 

Class legislation, 6, 175. 

Classic defined, 4, 266. 

Classics, superstitions attaching to, 2, 
129 ; the debt of modem literature 
to, 3, 311 ; the studv of, 6, 164 ; not 
properly **dead" languages, 165; 
See also, Greek ; Latin. 

Classical antiquity not rated at ita 
true value, I, 212. 

" Classical " English recommended as 
a model by the older critics, 3, 96. 

Classical quot-ations, relish for, 2^ iSO, 

Claude, 3, 358. 

Claudian, Dryden on, 3, 180. 

Clearness necessary to good writing, 
4, 55. 

Clergy of New England. 1, 86; 2, 
291 ; 6. 144 ; in 17th and 18th centa^ 
ries, 154. 

Clerk of the Weather, 3, 199. 

Cleveland, President, his ancestors, O. 
156 : greeting to him at the Harvard 
anniversary, 180; a repreaentative 
of Americanism, 184 ; hts character, 
185 ; his message on the tariff, 166, 

Clio, her gossip, 2, 284. 

Clothes, 3, 244; ready-made, 1, 89: 
interpenetrate with the nature of 
their wearers, 95. 

Clothes of the soul, lines on, 1, 46. 

Clothes-line in the wind, Perdval's 
blank verse compared to, 2, 142. 

Clotho, 1, 155. 

Clouds, 3, 314 ; at Subiaco, 1, 188 ; be- 
fore a snow-storm, 3, 276. 

Cloud-shadows, 1, 174. 

Clough, A. H., on the atmoepbere of 
Cambridge, 1, 53; at sea, 102; hie 
true expression of the tendenciee of 
his thne, 2, 121 ; 3, 243. 

Clown in English and Bpanidi trag* 
edy, 2, 131 ; his abeence in Amerioa, 



Bcott on, e, 73, 

Aacinn afarbitr, 4, STI; 6, T3; 
Wocdiwortta an, 4, 4M p i — Calul- 
lian Hemleoinii/abici, ■ill ; — 
Chriilabcl. 6, T6 ; - The Fritnd, i 
aeOl — WaUauletit, 8, m 



tain ft oertiflcate, 1. 143 ; the DevQ 
anks the privilege of, 2, 366. 

Confessional, 1, 197. 

Goufiscatiou of property, 6, 226. 

Congress, compared to a boy's debat- 
ing-club, 6, 19 ; the best men not 
sent to, from the North, 135 ; resi- 
dence as a qualiAcatiou for, 136 ; 6f 
214 ; speeches in, really addressed 
to the member's constituency, 6, 
2G5 ; also, 6, 27. 

Congressional Globe, 4, 300. 

Congreve, 3, 150, 188 ; 4, 19 ; on Dry- 
deu, 3, 178, 191. 

Conscience, 6, 129 ; the flaming 
sword of, 10 ; the good taste of the 
soul, 6, 178. 

Conservatism, of Dante, 4, 160 ; as 
shown by members of the American 
Tract Soo., 6, 12; the result of 
holding office, 18 ; claimed by three 
American parties in 18C0, 27 ; the 
result of ownership, 27; of demo- 
cracies, 70 ; also, 3(>, 3(5, 42. 

Conservative temperaments, effect of 
progress on, 1, 85. 

Consistency, instinct of, 4, SC8 ; com- 
monly considered of more impor- 
tance than statesmanship, 6, 2GG. 

Consolation, commonplace its twin 
sister, 3, 50. 

ConBpicuousness, 2, 59. 

Constables, 2, CO, 01 ; of Cambridge, 

Constantine, donation of, Dante on, 4, 

Constitution, men in good health un- 
conscious of having, 6, 5. 

Constitution, American. See United 
States — CouEtitution. 

Contemplation, Dante on, 4, 210. 

Contemplative life, tlie path of the 
old Mystics to, 1, 374. 

Contempt of court, not wearing one's 
coat a ground of arrest, 1, CG. 

Continuity of character exemplified 
in Horatio, 3, 80. 

Continuity, hibtoric, its effect on na- 
tional individuality, 6, 223. 

Convents, instances of demoniac pos- 
session in, 2, 371. 

Conventions of the *' transcenden- 
tal " times, 1, 362. 

Conventional life. Pope its peculiar 
poet, 4, 25. 

Conventional taste, 4, 8. 

Conventionality, Protestants against 
the religion of, 6, 250. 

Conventionalities, 6, 192. 

Conversation, compared to a saw-mill, 
1, 3 ; the pendi^um species of, 17 ; 
on the weather, 20; its proper 
measure, 43 ; at night over the fire 
on the hearth, 50; J. F.'s favorite 
topic Eternity, 90; on old times, 
145; of the monologue yariety, in 

HaydoD*B pftiiiting)-rooiii, 228. Sw 
also. Dialogue. 

Conversion, the American Tract Soci- 
ety's attitude toward, 6* 6, 7. 

Conviction, 6, 178 ; emotion miataken 
for, 2, 260. 

Cookery and good writing, their oom> 
mon principles, 3, 119. 

Cooking, the salaeratua period found 
on Moosehead Lake, 1, 25. 

Cooper, J. F., 6f 96; his conception 
of the poetic aide of early American 
history, 2, 5. 

Copley, Ajithony, a passage of Shake- 
speare's traced to, 1, 816. 

Copley, John Singleton, character of 
his painting, 1. 76. 

Copperheads, 6, o06. 

Corey's Hill seen at twUight, 3, 221. 

Comwallis, the, in Canibridge, 1, 77. 

Corneille, 3, 65 ; Voltaire on, 141. 
Cinna, 3, 158 ; Perthaiiie, 147. 

Cornell, Eizra, anecdote of, 6, 96. 

Correctness in literature, 2, 223. 

Correspondence, 4, 50. 

Cortona, 1, 185. 

Cory ate, Tom, brought the fork from 
Italy, 1, 126. 

CosmopolitaniEln, 1, 375. 

Costume in the drama, 3, 69, tO, 

Cottle, Mr., publisher of Wordsworth 
and Coleridge, 4, 377. 

Cotton the single product of South 
Carolina, 6, 58. 

Cotton, Charles, his style, 3, 129 ; on 
winter, 265. 

Cough, Temple of, at Tivoli, 1, 132. 

Count de Gahalis, Use sylphs in 
Pope's Rape of the Lock taken from, 

Country, the idea of, 2, 111. 

Country, love of, 2, 112 ; 6, 177. See 
also, Patriotism. 

Country charm of the literature of 
old times, 1, 248. 

Country choirs, 1, 11. 

Country dwellers, their meteorologi- 
cal ambitions, 3, 196. 

Couplets, 3, 154, 156; Dryden on, 
135, 137. 

Courage, 6, 88 ; 6, 185. 

Couriers, Englishmen the prey of, 1, 
124 ; their percentage on their em- 
ployer's money, 149. 

Courts of law not infallible, 6, 38. 

Courtesy, 2, 310 ; its essentials found 
among Maine woodmen, 1, 38 ; of 
the town-constable in Cambridge, 

Courtier whose thighs leaked bran, 2, 

Cowley on solitude, 1, 373 ; Dryden's 
opinion of, 3, 119 n, 127 ; his faultp, 
127 n ; a student of Spenser, 4, 351 ; 
also;2, 79 ; 6, 107. 

Cowper, his " taller thought," 1, 64 ; 



his likeness to Rousseau, 2, 266 ; his 
borrowing from Thomson, 3, 269; 
the best of our descriptive poets, 
270; his style compared with Mil- 
ton's, 4, 86; influence on Words- 
worth, 369 ; compared with Words- 
worth, 399; also, 2, 146; 3, 192, 

on Churchill, 2, 80 ; on Dryden, 3, 
190; on winter, 268, 270; on the 
country and the city, 269 ; on snow, 
275 ; on Milton's prosody, 4, 106. 
Homer, 1, 291 ; Coleridge on, 287 ; 
The Winter Walk, 3, 268. 

Cox, Julian, her confession of witch- 
craft and trial, 2, 341. 

Crabbe, 3, 335 ; his descriptions of 
character, 359. 

Craigie, Andrew, of Cambridge, and 
hia wife, 1, 89. 

Craik, Professor, English etymologies 
of, 3, 14 n. 

Crawford, the sculptor, his studio in 
Rome, 1, 239 n. 

Creation parodied by artifice, 3, 37. 

Creative faculty of Shakespeare, 1, 

Creative genius, Browning on, 6, 54. 

Creative mtellect, how distinguished, 
3 332. 

Cr^biUony?;*, 2, 94. 

Credit, its invention by the Floren- 
tines, 4, 118. 

Credulity, its different manifestations, 
2, 313 ; of the 17th century, 371. 

Creeds, their tendency to become dead 
formulas, 6, 36. 

Crime, and sin, identical with Dante, 
4, 232 n ; its punishment often de- 
layed, 6, 128 ; humanitarian view, 
6, 126. 

Critic, his position compared to that of 
an Italian guide, 1 141 ; compared 
to an alchemist, 2, 55. 

Criticism, cruelty of, 1 225 ; in the 
eighteenth century, 246; its func- 
tion to sweep away the false and 
Impure, 2. 123; Lesstng on its 
method, 174 ; the rights of friend- 
ship in, 199 ; apt to reverse the mir- 
acle of the archangel's spear, 200 ; 
fixed principles not a help to produc- 
tion, 222 ; produces correctness but 
not taste, 223 ; modem criticism re- 
gards parts rather than wholes, 82 ; 
requires absence of prepossessions, 
and also certain fixed principles, 3, 
29 ; its standards still furnished by 
Greek literature, 34; comparison 
inappropriate in judging works of 
art, 55 ; destructive and productive 
criticism, 67 ; a wise scepticism 
needed, 83 ; its duty to look at all 
sides, and give judgment of the 
whole, 114, ^2; its higher wisdom 
the capacity to admire, 140 ; the 

elements of a sound judgment, 4, 
355 ; want of a recognized standard, 
6, 63; the so-called constructive 
criticism, 121. 

Emerson's criticism, 1, 354; Tho- 
reau's lack of critical power, 369; 
Carlyle's method and aims, 2, 86; 
Montaigne the first modern critic, 
221 ; Leigh Hunt's method, 3, 332 ; 
Coleridge's power, 6, 71. See also, 
American criticism ; English criti- 
cism ; French criticism ; German 

Crocodile, its generation described by 
Lepidus, 2, 52. 

Cromwell, Oliver, Hugh Peter at hia 
funeral, 2, 30; Roger Williams's 
references to, 32 ; William Hooke'a 
reference to his desire to retire to 
private life, 33 ; the dissolution of 
Parliament in 1655, 34 ; dissolution 
of the Rump Parliament in 1653, 
Haynes's account, 35 ; Maidstone's 
description of, 36 ; learned tolerance 
by the possession of power, 39 ; 
Hooke's account of his death, 40 ; 
his opinion of Carlyle imagined, 94 ; 
Dryden 's stanzas on the death of, 3* 
109; verses addressed to. 116; hLi 
gentler qualities in Marvell's Elegy , 
116 ; Auchinleck's sasring on, 4, 73 ; 
his policy toward Independents and 
Presbyterians, 6, 173. 

on the Millennium, 2, 31 ; on the 
disorders of the army in the West 
Indies in 1655, 36. 

Cromwell, Richard, his abilities de- 
scribed by Hooke, 40. 

Crowne, John, reminiscences of, in the 
Gent. Magazine, 3, 133 n. 

Cruelty caused by religious differ- 
ences, 2, 374 ; caused by fear, 374. 

Crustacean natures, 1, 85. 

Cuba, the proposal to purchase, 5, 144. 

Cultibts, 4, 8. 

Culture, 2, 166; its most precious 
property, 6, 174. See also, Ameri- 
can culture ; Civilization. 

Cumberland, people of, 4, 374. 

Cumber-minds, 4, 89. 

Curculio in a plum, the priest In a dil- 
igence compared to, 1, 150. 

Currency, American. See American 

Currier's shop in Cambridgeport, 1, 70. 

Curtis, George William, anecdote of, 

CuBhtng, Caleb, 6, 78, 91. 

Cushing, General, Ids fears of seces- 
sion, 6, 41. 

Cusk, 1, 41. 

Custom, 6, 107. 

Custom-house at Civita Vecchia, quar- 
rel over the duty on a parrot, 1, 

Cynicism, the corruption of exuberant 



humor. 1, 97 ; further character- 
ized, IM. 

Daemonic, Alcott's favorite word, 1, 

Dainiea on Keata's Rrave, 1, 240. 

DainiaiiUB, Poter, 2, 3(il. 

IMttnn, as pronoauced by the pidnful 
Hr. Perkins, 2, la 

Dampier, Captain, on the natives of 
Timor, 3, 30. 

Dampness at sea, 1, 101. 

Dana, Chief Justice Francis, arrested a 
butcher for contempt of court, 1, GG. 

Dana, Ridiard Henry, his first essays 
at navifmtion, 1, GO. 

Dance of Deatli, Carlyle's view of life, 

Daiicinf;, the American Tract Society's 
attitude toward, 6, '2, 5. 

Danf^er and opi>ortuiiity, 6, G3. 

Daniel, Samuel, his poetic style, 3, 11 ; 
accent, 4, 113; his lan^niage, 280; 
character of his verRe, 281 ; quoted, 
3, 15G; 4,281; 6,51. 
Bulton on, 4, 280 n ; Wordsworth on, 
280 n. 

Civil Wars, 4, 2»i ; — Defevcf of 
Jihymr, 282 ; — To the Countess of 
Cumberland^ 282 ; — Musophilus, 

DaiiiAh sagos, 3, 313. 

Dantb, 4, 118-2G4 ; the associations 
of Florence, 118; the bust of Daute 
in the Must^um, 121 ; date of his 
birth, 121, 108 n; his ancestors, 122, 
242 ; hin lioroscupe, 123 ; his father's 
death, 123 ; his tutor Brunetto Lo- 
tini, 123; his studies and wander- 
ings, 124, 248 u ; diameter of the 
time, 12G ; the few well-afl<*ertaiued 
facts of Dante's life, 127 ; en- 
rolled in a Florentine guild, 128, 
107 n ; the political factions of Flor- 
ence, 120 ; Dante prior in 1300, 130, 
180 ; his exile in 1302, 131 ; his sub- 
sequent wanderings, 132 ; liis death 
at Ravenna, 130 ; his tomb, 13G n, 
142 ; epitaph, 137 ; contemporary 
accounts of liim, 138 ; the sorrow 
and labor of his life, 140 ; the feel- 
ing in Italy after his death, 141 ; lec- 
turers on Dante appointed in several 
Italian cities, 142 ; French opinions 
of Dante, 144 ; German study of 
him, 145 ; English study of him, 
14G ; Ms writings autobiographic and 
pnrts of a mutually related system, 
148, 171 ; at once a clear-headed pol- 
itician and 1 mystic, 140 ; his allu- 
sion!* to his 3xile, 150, 180 ; his poli- 
tics, 150, 170, 210 n ; his employment 
of Latin and Italian, 154 (3, 328) ; 
the theme of his writing righteous- 
ness, 154, 210 ; his knowledge of 
science, 156 ; his philosophy, 155, 

108, 183; the first purely Christian 
poet, 159, 230, 2G3; his power of 
abeoriition and assimilation, IGO ; not 
a mere partisan, IGO, 240 ; his con- 
■ciousness of a divine missioa, IGO, 
17G ; marks the transition between 
two ages, 161 ; his moral isolation, 
1G2 ; the wide range of his Influence, 
103 ; his critics, 1G4 ; the imagina- 
tion and tlie religious sentiment 
united, IGG, 230; the poetic power 
always present, 1G7 ; the continued 
misunderstanding of his work, 1G8 ; 
the unity of his various works, 171 ; 
liis character as shown in bis works, 
171 ; his logic, 172 ; his hatred of 
sin, 171,170: believed in righteona 
anger, 178 ; and in a divine order in 
the universe, 178, 232 n ; his lofty 
principle, 170; the chronolofnr of 
his oi'ininns, 170 ; his breadth of 
view, 182 ; his attitude toward phi- 
losophy, 183, 210 ; the stages of his 
uitelleetual and moral growth, 190, 
214; the tales of his amours 
groundless, 190, 200; after the 
death of Beatrice he gives himself 
up to an active life, but is recalled 
by her to the contemplative, 192, 
108 ; the Lady of the Convito and 
the Lady of the Vita Nuova recon- 
ciled, 103 ; another theory on tiie 
Beatrice of the Purgatorlo and the 
Vita Auora, 205 ; familiar with the 
Wisdom of Solomon and with the 
Scriptures, 212 n ; and vdth French 
and Proven^nl poetry, 212 n ; Ua 
prose 8tyle illustrated from the Cph- 
rifo, 213 ; his love of fame, 215 n ; 
possibly present in Rome in 1300, 
210 ; his studies in Paris, 222 n ; the 
intense realism of his imi^rination, 
223; his power of generalizing hla 
special experience, 227 ; his relation 
to literature, 228 ; the creative fao- 
nlty wanting in previous poetry, 
228; character of previous sacrea 
poetry, 230 ; the Christian idea oon- 
trasted with the Greek, 232; the 
freedom of the will the comer-atone 
of his system, 238, 244 ; his theory 
of society, 239 ; his orthodoxy, 244 ; 
makes exceptions to the absolute 
authority of the church, 246; hia 
idea of God in relation to the 
heathen, 240, 184 n; his teaching 
compared with that of the Sufi'a, 
252; is led to faith by the un- 
satisf actoriness of knowledge, 264 ; 
his vision of the Divine, ^tSB; Uie 
originality of his genius, 267; bis 
view of man and nature, 268; the 
secret of his power, 258 ; his living 
influence, 202; his message, 268; 
a sunrise nt sea compared to his 
style, 1, 106 ; his story easily be- 



lieved in his own time, 111 ; his 
human forest suggested by the olive- 
trees near Tivoli, 139 ; the Sasso di 
Dante, 213 ; his boast that no word 
made him say what he did not wish, 
2^ ; his lines on the lark traced to 
Bernard de Ventadour, 316; his 
range narrow but deep, 365; Ids 
theories abstract, 2, 150; his fiery 
rain, 3, 278 ; his idealization of 
woman, 303; a passage translated 
by Chaucer, 343; his verse not 
uniform in elisions, etc., 347; 4, 
107 n ; his allegory, 3, 362 ; individ- 
ual rather than self-conscious, 4, 
116; appropriateness of his family 
arms, 167 n ; Spenser familiar with, 
290 n; the instinct of jwrsonifi- 
cation recognized by, 6f 105 ; alsOy 
1, 376 ; 2, 104, 226 ; 3, 10, 25, 361 ; 
4, 69, 78, 114 ; 6, 52, 142, 174, 227. 
compared with Cliaucer, 3, 322; 
with Milton in the circumstances of 
his life, 4, 87 ; in character, 116 ; 
as to his work, 162 ; to the Hebrew 
prophets, 160, 176; with Spenser, 
207 n ; with Shakespeare as to sub- 
ject, 263 ; with Coleridge, 6, 75. 
on the vulgar tongue, 3, 9 n ; on ex- 
pression and conception, 17 ; on in- 
decision of character, 76; on ro- 
mances of chivalry, 309 n, 320 ; on 
the love of wisdom, 4, 125, 211 ; on 
his own wanderings, 133; on the 
delights of virtue, 172 n ; on Boe- 
thius and Augustine, 181 ; on old 
age, 181 ; on the beautiful, 183 n ; 
on his own g^reatness, 183 n ; on phi- 
losophy, 184, 200 ; on the allegorical 
exposition of his poems, 185 ; on the 
allegory in the Gospel account of 
the three Marys at the tomb of 
Christ, 186; on the double use of 
the mind, 186 ; on the soul's relation 
to God, 188; on the nature of his 
love for Beatrice, 190 ; on the active 
and the contemplative life, 192, 200 ; 
on allegorical composition, 194 ; on 
Virgil, 197 n ; on theology and the 
Bciences, 201; on the pursuit of truth, 
202; on Aristotle and Plato, 203; 
references to St. Paul, 203 n ; on ma- 
terialism, 205 n ; on religion, 206 ; on 
Brunetto Latini, 208 n ; on the out- 
ward beauty of his verses, 209 ; on 
contemplation, 210; on Girard de 
Bomeil, 210 ; on the souPs desire 
after good, 213 ; on Rome, 216 n ; on 
translation, 218 ; on the double na- 
ture of man, 220 ; on the truly dead, 
224 : on the " second death," 226 ; 
on Guide Guinicelli, 229 n ; on the 
relation between Pope and Emperor, 
239 ; on the course of Roman his- 
tory, 241 ; on the blessing of peace, 
242 ; on angels, 242 n ; on govern- 

ment, 243 ; on liberty, 244 ; on the 
one God worshipped by the heathen 
under different names, 246 ; on pru- 
dence, 246 ; on the miracles of Bo- 
man history, 247 ; on the state of 
the heathen after death, 248 ; on the 
superiority of the wise to law, 252 ; 
on transubstantiation, 257; on the 
sword of Divine Justice, 6, 128. 
y^ricour on, 4. 128 ; Balbo^s life of, 
133 n, 134; Foscolo on, 134, 156; 
Boccaccio on, 135 n, 190 n, 222 n ; 
his description of him, 139 ; Ben- 
venuto da Imola on, 138 ; Villani's 
sketch of, 138 ; Ottimo Comento on, 
139; Chateaubriand on, 144; Vol- 
taire on, 144, 164 ; on the date of 
his birtli, 122; Cornelius Agrippa 
on, 145 ; Goethe on, 146 ; Lord 
Chesterfield on, 146 ; Ruskin on, 
147, 163 ; Cantii on, 155 ; Witte on, 
157, 190 n ; Rivarol on, 272 ; on his 
language, 162, 164 ; Lamennais on, 
163; Schlosseron, 163; Carlyle OI^ 
164, 183 n, 205 n ; Coleridge on, 164 ; 
Ozanam on, 164, 222 n ; Miss Ros- 
setti on his style, 109 n ; her com- 
ment, 173, 220, 222 ; Gabr. Rossetti 
on his exile, 170 n ; Buti on his 
birth, 198 n ; on his novitiate in a 
Franciscan convent, 206 ; Pietro di 
Dante on, 205, 227 ; V. LeClerc on, 
212 n ; Wegele on, 222 n; Buth on, 
228 n : Keats on, 312. 

Beatrice, her marriage and death, 
4, 127 ; in the Vila Nuova, 148 ; her 
subtle transformation in Dante^s 
memory, 194; the process of her 
transformation, 197; her symbol- 
ism, 204 ; in the Purgatorio and the 
VUa Nuova, 205 ; the blending of 
reality and allegory, 206 ; her trans- 
figuration begun in the last sonnet of 
the Vita Nuova, 217 ; also^ 3, 302, 
303 ; 4, 159, 185 n, 190, 192, 196, 342. 

ConvilOj the authors quoted in, 4, 
125 ; its subject, 154 ; the prose part 
later than the Canzoni, 193; his 
opinions develop in the mean time, 
194, 196 ; explains his seeming in- 
consistency, 199 ; a/*o, 157 n ; 
quoted, 125, 133, 171-222 D(M«'m, 262. 

Vivina Comrtvedia^ the Inferno sug- 
gested by the prison at Palestrina, I, 
159 ; value of the ConvUo in illus- 
tration, 4, 155 ; date of composition, 
156; its subject stated by Dante, 
157 ; its interpretation, 157, 169, 
170; its title, 158; its symbolism, 
158 ; its subject broadly stated, 159 ; 
presents an image of the Middle 
Ages, 1S9 ; its scene the human soul, 
its fifth act the other world, 161, 
237 ; its theme subjective, its treat- 
ment objective, 161 ; in spite of criti- 
clsms it remains one of the univer- 



sal books, 166 ; its livinfrsoiil behind 
iU nuuiy iiieaiiiugH, 171 ; its pluii 
and aim, 174; the piotiire of liell, 
17r>; tlie sufferers in tlie Inferno 
equally divided between tlie two 
parties, \^ u ; Gud always tlie sun, 
184 n; the pathos of tiie closing 
scenes of the Purgatorio, '2^)1 n : uo- 
casioual touclies uf humor, '2(M n ; 
the real Beatrice eiuieutial to its Im- 
maii sympathies, 'AiO ; the punish- 
ments of tlte Inferno perhaiw HUg- 
gested by tlie Wisdom of Bulomon, 
212 u ; tlie concei>tiou ilrt>t takej 
detiiiite shape in his mind, *J1U; tlie 
allegory planned out, 221 ; its prim- 
ary value as an autobiography, 223 ; 
the Other World not primarily a 
place of lifpfiited spirits, 224 ; be- 
gun in Latin, 235 ; itii impurtiality, 
240 ; its central moral the truth of 
the incarnation, 25(>; its moHiung, 
2r>8; its style, 25U; immortality of 
the poem, 2ir7 ; conclusion of the 
ParadiMO, 6, K^')- 
comiMireil by I>r. Drake to Darwin^s 
JiotnuU: (iniitfu, 4, 147 ; compared 
with Paradise I^ist, 1(12 ; compared 
to a Gothic cathedral, 2.%. 
itH many editions and translations, 
4, 143 ; L:ui(Iiiio*8 comment, 150 ; 
Longfellow'H truiiHlation, 1U3 n. 
Bigier, 4, 172; Filippo Argent!, 
177; the ** donna gentil,'* 184 n, 
19ii ; Lucia, 184 n ; the Lady of the 
Terrestrial Paradise, 1!)5 ; Leah, 
195 ; the wood obscure, 222 ; Frate 
Albcrigo and Branca d' Oria, 225 ; 
Tristrem and Renoard of the Club, 
•KG ; the " second death," 225 ; Ad- 
rian V., 240; Boniface VIIL, 240, 
245 ; Bishop of Marseilles, 244 ; 
Mahomet, 244; Ephialtes, 247; 
Limbo, 248 ; Ripheus, 250 ; the in- 
scription over the gate of Hell, 251 ; 
AntaeuH, 200 ; Master Adam, 200. 
Special Passages: — Inf. i. 117,4, p. 
225 ; ii. 94, p. 184 n ; ii. 103, p. 
217 n; viii. 40, p. 177 ; xv. 119, p. 
208 n ; xx. 30, p. 177 n ; xxiv. 46- 
52 reproduced by Spenser, p. 332 ; 
xxxi. 136-138, p. 260 n ; — Purg. i., 
22, 27, 4, p. 186 ; iii. »4-44, p. 203 ; 
vi. 118, 119, p. 247 ; xvi. 1(M;-112, p. 
239 ; xvi. 142, p. 259 n ; xviii. 40-48, 
p. 221 n ; xix. 19-24, p. ,^9 n ; xx. 
52, p. 180 n; xx. 100-117, p. 247; 
xxiu. 121, 122, p. 224; xxvii. i>4- 
105, p. 105 ; xxvii. 100-108, p. 192 n ; 
xxvii. 139-142, p. 253 ; xxviii. 40- 
44, p. 195; xxix., xxx. compared 
with a passage in SfMtnser, p. 342 ; 
xxx. 115-138, p. 192; xxxi. 59; p. 
191 n ; xxxi. 103, 104, p. 190 ; xxxi. 
123-126, p. 207 ; xxxii. 100-102, p. 
196 ; — Parad. i. 70-75, 4, p. 257 n ; 

ii. 7, p. 267 : Hi. 88, 89, p. 176 n; hr. 
40-45, p. 175 ; iv. 124-132, p. 202 ; 
V. 115-118, p. 189 n; xiL 93, 94, p. 
240 II ; xiv. 90, p. 184 n ; zvii. 65-00, 
p. 140 ; xvii. U9, p. IKO; xix. 82-«4, 
p. 249: xxvi. 107, 108, p. 210 n ; 
xxvi. 134, p. 248n. 
Lflterji, 4, 150 ; letter to Henry VII., 
l.'U, li;7 n ; letter to the Florentines, 
135; letter to the people of Italv, 
152, li>7 11 ; letter to Caa Orande 
<|iu>tetl, 108, 252. 

Minor Poems^ 4. 166 ; perfection of 
the Cniizoiii, 229. 

De. Munarchiay its date, 4, 160, 181 ; 
its argument, 150 ; Bchloaaer on, 
152: condemned as heretical, 163; 
compared with Aristotle and Spi- 
noza, 153 n ; its language, IM ; 
fjuoted, 220, 239-249, pasitim. 
\ ita Xuara^ the aspiration at its close, 
4, 140 ; its subject, 148 ; its impor- 
tance to the understanding of 
Dante, 148 ; its date, 149, 216 : tlie 
last two sonnets as they treat of 
Beatrice, 217; o/ao, ISO; quoted, 
im. See aho above ^ Beatrice. 
De Vulgari EloquiOj its text, 4, 163; 
its subject, 154 ; a/«o, 3, 17 n ; 4, 
148, 182 u ; quoted, 150, 181, 216 n. 

Dante, Jacopo di, redeems a portion 
of his father's property, 4, 136 n. 

Dante, Pietro di, on Dante's study of 
I theology. 4, 205; on the "second 
I death," 226; on Dante, 227; his 
comment one of the earliest, 227 n. 
I Dauton, Carlyle's picture of, 2, 89. 
j Dauyell, an Indian of royal blood, 
his necessities described by Fiti- 
John Winthrop, 2, 68. 

Darkness, the fancy active in, 1, 105 ; 

Darwin, Erasmus, the Dirina Com- 
media compared to Ids fotonie Qwr 
den by Dr. Drake, 4, 147. 

Darwinism, 6, 23 n. 

Dates, as sold in the Cambridge gro- 
ceries, 1, 04. 

Davenant, Will, 3, 64 ; taught Dryden 
to admire Shakespeare, 113; his 
Goiidiheii characterized, 138. 

Davenport, John, account of Hugh 
Peter, 2, 30 ; on God's wrath against 
the Quakers, 66. 

Davenport, Ruf us, his investments in 
the Cambridgeport marshes, 1, 71. 

David on snow, 3, 275. 

Davies, Sir John, 3, 139 n. 

Davis, Jefferson, 6, 79, 306, 326L 

Dayliglit gives the supremest sense of 
solitude, 1, 105. 

Deacons, 1, 80 ; 6, 85. 

Dead langunges, the classics improp< 
erly so called, 6, 105. 

Deane, Cliarles, 6, 146 n. 

Death, Keats on, 1, 287 ; Webst«r*s 



lines on. 282 ; Petrar'^h's longincrs 
after, 2, 254 ; Josiali Qiiiicy*B re. nark 
on, 309 ; Dryden's lines on, 3, 168 ; 
Winter compared to, 258 ; Dante on 
the truly dead, 4, 224 ; his lines on 
the "second death," 225. See also, 

Death by lightning, J. F.'s feeling 
about, 1, 91. 

Debate of the Body and the Soul cited, 

1, 332. 

Declaration of Independence, 2, 75; 

Rousseau's influence in, 2G4; em- 
bodies Christianity in human laws, 

Decorum, public, 3, 152. 
Decorum in poetry, Milton on, 4, 2. 
Defeated commander, sympathy for, 

De Foe, in Pope's Dtmeiad, 4, 48 ; 

Robinson Crusoe compared with 

Don Quixote, 6f 119; quoted, 2, 

Deformities, exhibited by beggars in 

Roman streets, 1, 209. 
Degeneracy in nature and man felt in 

middle life, 3, 284. 
Deipnosophists, 2, 135. 
Dekker, Tliomas, his prosody, 4, 108 ; 

on Christ, the first true gentleman, 

De la Rue, Abel, his confession of 

witchcraft, 2, 334, 363. 
Delaware, importation of slaves into, 

forbidden in 1787, 6, 141. 
Delirium, Sir K. Digby's cure for, 2, 

Delusions, the immortality of, 6, 91. 
Democracy, not the object of the 

founders of New England, 2, 3 ; the 

offspring of Puritanism, 13 ; 6, 15 ; 

its steady growth in New England, 

2, 74; of the future, the ideal of 
manhood to be found in, 100 ; rela- 
tion to poetry, 151 ; Rousseau its 
foster-father, 204 ; its influence on 
character, 287 ; its blunders, 311 ; 
its heavy roller does not flatten 
everything, 3, 222; one cause of 
foreign misunderstanding of Amer- 
ica, 232, 235 ; in Holland, 234 ; its 
noblest development, 235 ; its sig- 
nificance when it cau fight for an 
abstraction, 248 ; its dangers and 
responsibilities better appreciated, 
249; public corruption the result 
of private evil, 4, 172 ; the respon- 
sibility of individual voters, 6, 18 ; 
6, 209 ; hostile to Privilege, not to 
Property, 6, 27 ; 6, H ; duty of the 
people to form opinions on public 
questions, 6, 38 ; allegiance to the 
will of the majority its necessary 
basis, 47, 134 ; the question of self- 
protection, 64 ; conservatism of, 76 ; 
Its power to suppress intestine di»> 

order to be vindicated in the Civil 
War, 90; importance of education 
in, 135; its strength in allowing 
every man to rise, 137: its failure 
prophesied at the opening of the 
American Civil War, 180; its 
strength and steadiness proved l>y the 
Civil War, 210 ; usurpation of power 
impossible, 214 ; the principle of 
extending the right of suffrage, 230 ; 
bound to be just to all, 261 ; the old 
fallacy of the tyranny of, 301 ; uni- 
versal suffrage necessary, 3U3 ; itc 
advance prepares the way for the 
second coming of Christ, 310. 
Democracy ; inaugural address, Oct. 
6, 1884, 6, 7-37 ; the author's experi- 
ence of, 10 ; not hostile to property, 
11 ; the common charge of American 
responsibility for, 12, 15 ; the fer- 
ment nothing new, 13, 16; first or- 
ganized in the Church, 14 ; men be- 
ginning to know their opportunity 
and their power, 15 ; democracy in 
America inlierited from England, 15 ; 
the development of democracy in- 
evitable, 17 ; the customary charges 
against democracy, 20 ; democracy 
defined, 20, 33 ; a parable of Jellala- 
deen applied to, 21 ; modifications of 
a pure democrac/ required in a larg^ 
country, 22 ; democracy as embodied 
in the American Constitution, 23 ; 
the experience of small cities un- 
favorable, 23 ; its success in Amer- 
ica, 24; government by discussion and 
by majorities, 27 ; universal suffrage, 
28 ; ductility to discipline somewhat 
lessened, 30 ; development of per- 
sonal independence, 31 ; reverence 
for authority declining everywliere, 
31 ; true worth appreciated in, 32 ; 
fosters respect for superior virtue, 
32 ; importance of public opinion, 
34 ; significance of Socialism in, 34 ; 
the good nature fostered by, 97 ; 
its weakness, to be satisfied with 
the second-best, 170 ; a failure un- 
less it can produce the highest types 
as well as a high average, 172 ; its 
tendency to overestimate material 
success, 173 ; its unsettled problems, 
175 ; the author'^ address at Bir- 
mingham, 193 ; the weaknesses and 
perils resulting from its abuse, 195 ; 
successful in America before its 
presence was observed, 205 ; the 
duties of individual citizens in, 209 ; 
See also, American politics ; Equal- 
Democratic party, character in 1860, 
6, 24 ; its position in the. North in 
1861, 78 ; its alliance with the Slave 
power, 144 ; its awkward position in 
1864, 153 ; its candidates in|iended to 
offset each other, 154 ; the elements 



of the Chicago Convention, 155 ; the 
difficulties of coustracting a plat- 
form, 157 ; its only proposal is sur- 
render, 158 ; its attitude toward 
secession, 249; inl8(X),2G8; its con- 
tempt for the reasoning powers of 
the people, 284 ; in the Philadelphia 
Convention of 18GC, 288 ; its respon- 
sibility for the Civil War, 6, 211. 

Demogorgon, 3, 290. 

Demoniac possession, the natural ten- 
dency toward, 2, 370. 

Demosthenes, 2, 241. 

Dennis, John, on Dryden, 3» 104, 190 ; 
as a critic, 190 ; on artifice, 4, 8; 
Pope's relation to, 50 ; cUso, % 17. 

Dentition, 2, 251. 

De Quincey, 3, 32 ; on Wordsworth, 1, 
371, 394. 

Derby, Lord, his Homer quoted and 
compared with Chapman's, 1, 293 ; 
on the United States government, 
5, 214. 

De Roos, Lord, convicted of cheating 
at cards, 6, 83. 

Description, Sliakespeare's power in, 
3, 42 ; the introduction of unmean- 
ing particulars, 4, 74; Milton's 
power, 99. 

Descriptive poetry, 3, 2G1 ; 6, 74 ; 
Cowper's the best for every- day 
wear, 3, 270 ; diatribe on, 4, 272 ; 
Wordswortli's power, 372. See alsoj 
narrative poetry. 

Desmond, Countess of, 4, 59. 

Despots, 6, 27. 

Despotisu's, 6, 209. 

Devil, Mather on, 1, 257 ; our rela- 
tions with in modem times, 2, 2. 
See also, Satan. 

Devils, the infernal hierarchy, 2, 327. 

Dexter, I.Iaine, 1, 11. 

Dialogue, the battledoor and shuttle- 
cock stylo, Zf 137. See alsoy Con- 

Diana, 2, 358. 

Diaries, importance of keeping, 2, 293. 

Diction, 1, 245 ; of Emerson, 351 ; of 
Coleridge, 0, 74 ; lack of propriety 
in, 3, 125. 

Diction and speech, 3, 14. See also^ 
Clioico of words ; Gtyle. 

Dickeuo, Pickwick Papers^ imitates 
Cervantes, 6, 135. 

Diderot, Lescing's debt to, 2, 221, 
224 n ; on French poetry, 3, 1G2 n. 

Diet, its influence on the brain, 2, 389. 

Difficulty, made the tenth Muse by 
Voltaire, 4, 7. 

Digamma in tlie Sirens' lay, 1, 92. 

Digby, Sir Kenelm, his theory of asso- 
ciation, 1, 1 ; sends curious prescrip- 
tions to J. Winthrop, Jr., 2, 56; 
seeks books for Harvard College, 57 ; 
his politics, 57 ; both a writer and a 
aoldief, 286 ; on witchcraft, 387. 

Dignity of man, 1, 375. 

Dilettante the moral, 2, 253. 

Dilettantism, its beginning, 4* 160. 

Diligence from Tivoli to Rome, 1, 14G 
149. See also, Stage-coach. 

Dilke quoted on KeiU»'8 betrothal, 1, 

Diuimesdale, Mr., in Hawtliome*a 
Scarlet Letter, 2, 265. 

Dinner at the inn in PalestrinA, 1. 

Dinners, 2, 295. 

Diphilus the Labyrinth, 1, 363. 

Diplomacy, the principle of paper 
money in, 6, 293. 

Discipline as exercised by Pres. Kirk- 
land, 1, 85. 

Discontent, wholesome, 1, 366; un- 
derlying all great poetry, 2, 150. 

Discussion, slavery has no claim to im- 
munity from, 6, 13 ; the life of fre« 
institutions, 31. 

Disease, satisfaction of finding a long 
name for, 6, 13. 

Disputes of Italians, 1, 165. 

Disraeli, Isaac, 4, 54 : his herbarium 
of Billingsgate, 2, 213. 

Distance estimated by one^s feelings, 

Divine judgments made to work both 
ways. 2, 66. 

Divorce, Milton's demand for easier, 
4, 115. 

Dixon, Hepworth, on the typical 
America, 3, 212. 

Dixoi), James, servant of Wordsworth, 
4, 354 n. 

Dobeon, Austin, his life of Fielding, 

Doctrinaires in politics, 6, K9 ; 6, 1^ 

Dodo, 1, 315. 

Dogs of the Palestrina inn, 1, 161. 

Domes generally look heavy, 1, 206. 

Don Quixote ; notes read at the 
Workingmeu's College, 6, 115-130. 
For details, see under Cervantes. 

Donati, Corso, Dante's connection 
with, 4, 128; plunders Florence, 
136 n. 

Doner, Lawrence, the Devil asks to be 
confessed by him, 2, 3G6. 

Donkey, hio bray, 1, 156. 

Donkey driving, 1, 170. 

Dome, his Mistress Boulstred, 1, 229 ; 
his profoimdness, 2, ICO; wanting 
in the higher imagination. 3, 35; 
his Pelic, 171 ; his verse, 348, 350 ; 
4, 107 n ; also, 1, 281, 381 ; 4, 21 n, 
230 ; quoted, 6, 80, 140. 

Dryden on, 3, 171 n ; Ben Jonson on, 
6, 113 ; Coleridge on, 155. 

Doolittle, Mr., Cliairman of the Phila- 
delphia Convention, 6, 286. 

Doubt, 4, 204; Dante compares it 
to a sucker, 202. See also. Scepti- 



Douflrlas, Gawain, his translation of the 
^neidy 4, 271. 

Douglas, Janet, her confession of 
witchcraft, 2, 341. 

Douglas, Stephen A., candidate for 
Pres. in 18u0, views of tlie Constitu- 
tion, 6, 24 ; iiis oratory, 194 ; Pres. 
Johnson's allusion to, 289 ; his char- 
acter, 291 ; liis canonization a com- 
mon misfortune, 292. 

Downing, Emanuel, 2, 24, 44, 48 ; 
letter to Winthrop on tlie necessity 
of obtaining slaves, 42. 

Downing, Sir George, 2, 24, 30. 

Dragon, age of the, 1, 108. 

D'ake, Dr., compares the Divina 
Cominedin to Darwin's Botanic Oar- 
den^ 4, 147. 

Drake, Sir Francis, 2, 290. 

Drama, a growth, iiot a mantifacture, 
2, 131 ; cultivation of character es- 
sential to a writer of, 195 ; tiie de- 
mand that all its parts must be in 
keeping, 3, G9 ; anaclironisms in, 70 ; 
the introduction of low characters 
and comic scenes in tragedy, 73 ; the 
moral office of tragedy, 88 ; it 
teaches by indirection, 88 ; difficulty 
of making a moral theory the object, 
4, 377. See also, Englisli drama; 
Frencli drama ; Greek drama ; Span- 
ish drama. 

Dramatic poetry, the combination of 
qualities needed for, l,-279; cietin- 
guished from narrative, 3, 351 

Dramatic unit^, Shakespeare's illa- 
tion to, 3, G.5. 

Dr.^matists, Elizabethan, 1, 277, 280 ; 

Drayton, 3, 11 ; shipwrecked by his 
choice of subjects, 4, 279. 
Battle of Agincourt, 3, 142; Moon- 
cnlf cited, 2, 3(52 ; Nt/niphidia, 4, 
49, 280 ; Polyolbion a versifle*! gazet- 
teer, 279 ; To the Cavihrio-Briions, 

Dreams, visit to Prester John on a gi- 
raffe, 1, 24. 

Dresden, winter in, 3, 207. 

Drive from Subiaco to Tivoli, 1, 

Drinking in the wine-shop of Rojate, 
1, 178 ; Thomas Shepard's letter on, 
to Wintlirop, 2, 42. 

Drowning, effect on the memory, 1, 

Drummond, of Hawthomden, 4, 30G ; 
reprinted in tlie " Library of Old 
Authors," 1, 252 ; quoted, 4, 91. 

Drunkeimess, Uncle Zeb's frequent 
potations, and his difficulties, 1, 29 ; 
the Washington Corps, 88 ; of Le- 
pidus in Antony and Cleopatra ^ 2, 

Dryden, 3, 95-191 ; his position among 
English poets, 99; posterity has 

judged him by his best, 100; the 
first of tiie modems, 101, 139; the 
character of his age, 101 ; his own 
cliaracter, 103 ; his acquaintance 
with earlier and later writers, 104 ; 
his father and family, 105; his 
reading when a boy, 105; educa- 
tion, lOG ; poet-laureate and histori- 
ographer, lOG ; marriage, 107 ; the 
style of his earliest verses, 107 ; 
studied the early poems of Milton, 
109; his power of argument, 110; 
his best work in his old age, 112 ; 
the gradual quickenhig of his imag- 
ination, 113 ; the xermo pedesttnshia 
natural element, 113 ; his poetry at 
its best in translations, 1 14 ; com- 
pared to an ostricli, 115 ; early per- 
formances of the obligato sort, 110 ; 
his attitude towards the Restora- 
tion, 118; his first work of fine 
quality in 10(i3, 118; unevenness of 
his style, 120, 120 ; poetical beauty 
of his prose, 120 ; failings of his 
verse, 122, 144, 185 ; the develop- 
ment of his taste traced in his pre- 
faces, 123; his memory for things, not 
words, 124 n ; instances of '* bour- 
geois " diction, 125 ; his prose style 
compared with that of others, 129 ; 
formed on the usage of the Court, 
132 ; his vein of coarseness, 133 ; 
an old gentleman's memories of hira 
in Norwich drugget, 133 ; his pre- 
faces, 134 ; his pithy sentences, 135, 
1G7 ; his eagerness in argument, 130 ; 
his inaccuracy, 137 ; the Anmis 
Mirabilis examined in detail, 138; 
his happy comparisons, 139, 155 n, 
105 ; his frequent borrowing from 
other authors, 141 n, 143 ; in poe- 
try, he is always emulating some 
one else, 142 ; liability to mix prose 
in his poetry, 144 ; his plays, 146 ; 
the comic ones unsuccessful, 148 ; 
their nastiness, 148 ; 6, 59 ; his 
apology for it, 3, 152 ; defence of 
heroic plays in the French style, 153 ; 
his poor success in following it, 168, 
102 ; had no aptitude for the stage, 
10:3 ; his apology for his own faults, 
103; the admirable single passages 
in his plays, 104 ; his persistent ca- 
pability of enthusiasm, 16G; his 
blank verse, 168 ; instances of pathos, 
1G9; his sterling sense, 109, 182; 
fervent rather than imaginative, but 
often picturesque, 170 ; his moral- 
izing always good, 172; his ploto 
poor, 173; forbearing in literary 
quarrels, 174 ; devoid of jealousy, 
175 ; his satire, 176 ; the judicious 
criticism of his prefaces, 179 ; his 
influence on English literature, 182 ; 
allows himself to fall into verbi- 
age, 182 ; his Latinisms, 183 ; his use 



of English, 185; his conversion to 
Romanism, 186 ; the mingled Bcep> 
ticism and superstition of his mind, 
187 ; his personal appearance, 1S7 ; 
the secret of his emmence, 188; 
his genius, 190 ; his funeral charac- 
teristic of his life, 191 ; his debt to 
French literature, 2, 221 ; assisted 
the triumph of French taste in Eng- 
land, 4, 16; prosody, 113; a pupil 
of Spenser, 351. 

compared with Burke, 3, 100 ; with 
Pope, 114, 177, 184, 190 ; 4, 57 ; with 
Rubens, 3, 115 ; witli Voltaire, 180 ; 
with Wordsworth, 6, 113. 

on the productions of a poet's later 
years, 3, 112 ; on the improvement 
in poets after forty, 112, 127 ; on his 
own tastes, 119 n ; on hastiness in 
writing, 120 n ; on his own powers, 
122 ; on skill m English composition, 
130, 131 ; on the influence of women 
in refining language, 131 ; on qua- 
trains and rhyme, 135, 138 ; on blank 
verse, 137 n ; on comets, 139 ; on 
suicide, 141 n ; on the failure of his 
Wild Gallant^ 147 ; on the corrup- 
tion of the Court, 150 ; on his lack 
of comic power, 152 ; on contempo- 
rary poetry, 154; on rhyme, 154, 
155, 168 ; on French drama, 159, 
160 ; on the character of the French 
and English languages, 161 ; on for- 
giveness of injuries, 175; on tlie 
Rehearsal^ 175 ; on good-nature, 176 ; 
on satire, 176 ; on translation, 181 ; 
on the enrichment of English witli 
foreign words, 183 ; on sublimity, 
189 n ; on English literature of tlae 
Restoration, 4, 15. 

on Shakespeare, 3, 37, 113 ; on Boi- 
leau, 99 ; on Milton's rhyme, 110 ; 
on Polybius, 113 n; on Cowley, 
119 n, 127 ; on Virgil, 120, 180; on 
Homer, 120 n ; on Spenser, 123 ; 4, 
351 ; on Sylvester's Du Bartas, 3, 
123 ; on Swift, 132 n ; on Jonson, 
143 ; on his English, 185 n ; on Wal- 
ler, 154 ; on Racine's Bnjazet^ 160 ; 
on Donne, 171 n ; on Oldham, 177 ; 
on Burnet, 178 ; on Chaucer, 1^, 
293 ; on Claudian, 180 ; on Ovid, 180 ; 
on Tlieocritus, 180. 

Bwift on, 3, 97, 132 n ; on his pre- 
faces, 134 ; Gray on, 106 n, 173 ; Mil- 
ton on, 114 : Johnson on, 140 ; Pope 
on, 173, 188; Congreve on, 178; 
Home Tooke on, 180 ; Cowper on, 
190; Dennis on, 190. 

Ahsnlom and Achitophel, character 
of Zimri, 3, 177 ; Coleridge on, 179 
n ; Alhumazar quoted, 143 ; Alexan- 
der's Feast, 180; All for Lore, 37, 
163, 173; quoted, 164, 168, 170, 172, 
173; Amphitryon quoted, 145; An- 
nus Mirabilis, 122, 133; Pepys's 

comment on, 134; examuifd in de- 
tail, 138; Astrsea Eedvx, 110, 118; 
Aurengzebe quoted, 111, 139, 166, 
169 ; Cleomenes quoted, 169 ; Com- 
mendatory verses prefixed to the 
Sacred Epigrams of John Hoddes- 
don, 108; Conquest of Granada, 
165; quoted, 126, 1G5, 166; On tH 
Death of Lord Hastings, 107 ; Von 
Sebastian, Home Tooke on, 173; 
quoted, 129, 141 n, 169; Essay on 
Dramatic Poesy, 153 ; Evening 
Lore, 148; Horace, Ode Hi. 2.9,114; 
Indian Emperor acted at Court, 
175 n; quoted, 165; King Arthur 
quoted, 129; Limberham, 152; 
MacFlecknoe quoted, 1G3 ; Maiden 
Queen, 135 n, 136 n, 148 ; quoted, 
1()5; Marriage a. la Mode quoted, 
171; (Edipus quoted, 128, 172; 
Poem to Lord Clarendon quoted, 
111 ; Rival Ladies quoted, 166, 
168 ; Royal Martyr quoted, 125, 
163 ; Sir Martin Marall, Pepys on, 
148; Spanish Friar, 146, 148; 
quoted, 146, 171 ; Stanzas on the 
death of Cromwell, 109, 116, 118 ; 
Wild Gallant, 147. 

Dual nature of life, 2, 267. 

Du Bartas, founder of the cultist 
school, 4, 8. 

Ducks. See under Birds. 

Dudley, Gov. Joseph, 2, 73. 

Duel declined by Josiah Quincy, 2, 

Duke, Alice, her confession of witch- 
craft, 2, 340. 

Dunbar, William, 4, 271 ; Dance of 
the Seren Deadly Sins, 269 ; Merle 
and Nightingale quoted, 268. 

Dunbar, battle of, 2, 7. 

Dunciad. See Pope. 

Duns Scotus, 1, 253. 

Dunton, John, his journey to New 
England, 6, 150. 

Dutch, European ridicule of, 3, 233 ; 
their true quality, 233; their de- 
mocracy the cause of European dis- 
like, 234. 

Dutch captain, X's story of, 1, 119. 

Duty, neglected, 6, 312. 

Duvergier de Hauranne, 3, 241. 

Dwiolit, Timothy, -2, 153 ; his Con^ 
quest of Canaan, 3, 306. 

Dyce, Rev. Alex., 1, 283, 316; his 
excellent editorial work, 318 ; citod, 

Dyer, John, 4, 5. 

Dying, 6, 42 ; the calmness and re- 
pose of, 1, 236. See also, Death. 

E. K. See Kirke, Edmund. 
E Pluribus Unum, 5, 45-74. 
Early rising, inconveniences of, 1, & 
Earnestness, 3, 82. 



East winds, 1, 77 ; 6. 17. 

EABter at St. Peter^t, Borne, 1, 151, 

Eating one*8 words a wholesome diet 
in some cases, 6i 266. 

Eaton, his account of the dissolution 
. of Parliament in 1655 quoted by 
Mason, 2, 34. 

Ecclesiastes, 4, 323; cimicism of, 2, 

Ecclesiasticus, the Man of Leisure due 
to, e, 220. 

Edda, Elder, 1, 106 ; 2, 359. 

Edda age, the sea-serpent a last relic 
of, 1, 108. 

Editing, Mr. Hazlitt*s theory of, 1, 
336, 347. See also^ Emendation. 

Editors, Matzner on, 1, 319. 

Editors of early English literature, 
necessary qualifications of, 1, 259, 

Edmondson, William, % 65. 

Education, undervalued in America, 
1, 6; too often cramps and stunts 
nature, 32; M., a famous river- 
driver an example of an educated 
man, 31 ; In early New England, 2, 
15, 18 ; 6, 147 ; effect of teaching by 
rote, 4y 358 ; the library a means of 
self-education, 6, 83 ; the three R's 
system, 83 ; the power of thought 
its highest result, 89 ; its importance 
to the state, 97 ; the tendency to 
lay the blame for the pupil's short- 
comings on the teacher, 150 ; liter- 
ature not to be sacrificed to language 
in teaching, 152 ; literature and phi- 
lology both to be cultivated, 153 ; 
the office of the higher instruction 
the training of guides for society, 
159 ; liberal studies always to take 
the lead, 160 ; usefulness of variety 
in study, 161 ; dangers of the volun- 
tary system, 162 ; the value of com- 
pulsion, 163 ; is learning naturally 
repulsive to youth? 164; due to 
faulty methods of teaching, 164 ; 
the study of the classics, 165; ad- 
vantages of study abroad, 167 ; a 
college education no longer prized, 
170; free public schools desirable, 
but not free text-books, 170 ; neces- 
sity of an organic relation between 
higher and lower schools, 171 ; the 
general purpose of colleges to train 
the faculties for the duties rather 
than the bujsiness of life, 176 ; 
courses of study to be adapted to 
the highest level of intelligence, 177 ; 
sneer^ at by practical politicians, 
191. See alsOf American schools; 
French schools ; Public schools ; 
Scholarship ; Teaching ; Universi- 

Eels, boys scrambling for at the Foun- 
tain of Trevi, Rome, 1, 216. 

Egeft 5tr, and Sir Grille^ ra3sage 
quoted, 3, 327. 

Egg-laying creatures, certain genera- 
tions compared to, 2, 12. 

Egotism, 1, 42 ; 5, 207 ; of travellers 
and reporters, 1, 121 ; intolerant 
and intolerable, 4, 84. 

Egyptian head-dresses in Italy, 1, 171. 

Egyptian magicians, 2, 357. 

Election in November, 1860, 6, 17-44. 

Election-days in Boston, 1, 61. 

Elective system in collef^e, 6, 161, 178. 

Elegancy in poetry, Phillips on, 4, 2. 

Elegy on the Snow brothers, 1, 67. 

Elegies, 3, 117. 

Elfrida. See Mason, William. 

Eliot, G. W., President, his administra- 
tion, 6, 167. 

Elisions in Milton's verse, 4, 106. 

Ellsworth, Oliver, on the necessity of 
coercive power in the government, 
6, 148. 

Elocution, Emerson's manner, 1, 359. 

Eloquence, 2, 25. 

Eloquent writing, its secret, 2, 233. 

Emancipation forced upon the gov- 
ernment by the rebels, 6, 169 ; the 
only merciful way of punishinGf the 
real authors of the rebellion, 176 ; a 
powerful minority opposed to, 198 ; 
announced as the one essential for 
readmission to the Union, 237 ; grad- 
ualism an unsuccessful policy, 238. 

Embargo, 2, 301. 

Emendation of texts, 3, 23 n. 

Ehebson, the Lecturer, 1, 349-360 ; 
his attractiveness does not diminish, 
349 ; Roydon's lines on Sidney ap- 
plied to, 349, 360 ; the secret of hia 
popularity his wide range, 350 ; his 
system need not be analyzed, 350 ; 
essentially a poet, 351 ; proof of his 
genius, 351 ; his diction, 351 ; his 
power of stimulation and inspira- 
tion, 352 ; his power the result of 
character, 352 ; his perennial youth, 
853 ; his lectures in 18G8 character- 
ized, 353 ; the delight of listening to 
his first lectures, 3o4 ; his audiences 
described, 355 ; his awakening power, 
356, 366; liis reminiscences of the 
intellectual influences of his own 
life, 357 ; the country's debt to him, 
358; his masculine fibre, 351, 358, 
366; his manner of speaking, 359; 
his speech at the Bums dinner, 359 ; 
his sphinx, 50; the herald of the 
decease of Puritanism, 364 ; and the 
embodiment of its spirit, 365 ; his 
artistic range narrow, 365; the 
sleeping partner in many reform 
movements, 365 ; his oration before 
the Phi Beta Kappa Society, 366; 
the tendency of his teaching com- 
pared with that of Carlyle, 367 ; 
Thoreau one of hia disciples, 368; 



tjrpicalf to tome extent, of Ameri- 
can character, 2, 151 ; on winter, 3, 

266, 272 ; popular respect for, 6, 32 ; 

on Everett's teaching, 156 ; alsOf 3, 

132 n. 
Emmanuel College, the delegate from, 

at the Harvard anniversary, 6, 179. 
Emotion mistaken for conviction, %, 

Empedocles, 1, 1. 
Empire, Daute on its relations to the 

Papacy, 4, 239. 
Empyrean, Dante on, 4, 168 ; Dante 

compares theology to, 201. 
Encyclopaedias, 6, 90. 
End of the world, Dryden's references 

to, 3, 145. 
Endicott, John, 2, 25 ; on Hugh Peter 

and Mrs. SbefHeld, 27. 
Enduring greutness inconsistent with 

great contemporary influence, 2, 

England, effect of the Reformation on 

the life of, 4, 293 ; the development 

of the " English people," 293, 295 ; 

the Civil Wars of the Roses a barren 

Eeriod, 295 ; Shakespeare on, 295 ; 
penser's love of, 350 ; iterance of 
America, 6, 214 ; the *' Old Home " 
to Americans, 6, 40. See also^ Eng- 
lish constitution ; English politics, 
under Elizabeth, 3, 2, 4 ; — under the 
Commonwealth, references to in 
Roger Williams's letters, 2, 31 ; — 
in 1653, dissolution of the Rump 
Parliament described by Haynes, 
84 ; — in 1655, Mason's account of 
the dissolution of Parliament, 33 ; 
~ in 1658, Hooke's letter on, 38 ; — 
in 1659, Hooke's account of the Pro- 
tector's death and the affairs of the 
country, 40;— under Charles II., 
coarseness of the age, 3, 132 ; con- 
dition of society, 151 ; its debauched 
morals and urbane manners, 4, 13 ; 
a period of materialism and in- 
sincerity, 18; contrasted with the 
previous generation, 18; — in 18th 
century, its coarseness, 6, 60 ; — 
in 1861, attitude toward America, 
6, 78 ; recognizes the Southern 
States as belligerents, 249 ; — in 
1860, relations with America, 3, 

English Academy, Dryden hints at, 3, 

English artists in Italv, 1. 76. 

English blood, a blood to be proud of, 

English Church, its relation to the 
Roman Church, 2, 274 ; Lecky on 
its attitude toward witchcraft, 
877 n ; Wordsworth a defender of 
the Establishment, 4, 367. 

English Civil War, Maidstone's sum- 
mary of, 2, 36. 

English climate, Charles 11. on, 3, 283L 

English constitution, 6, 246 ; 6, 84; 
essentially democratic, 6, 15. 

En«:lish court. Swift on the poor Eng^ 
lish spoken at, 3, 131 ; in 16th cen* 
tury, Spenser's warnings against, 

English criticism, 2, 85. 

EngUsh drama. Lamb's criticism of, 
3, 29, 150 : Voltaire on, 4, 17 ; Mil- 
ton on, 115; Elizabethan, 1, 277, 
280; 4,369. 

English dukes, 1, 186. 

English glees, 4, 97. 

English history belongs to Americans 
de^ure^ but not de facto ^ 2, 274. 

English humor appeals to the whole 
nation, 2, 278. 

English humorists, 2, 169. 

English landscapes, their associations, 
6, 139. 

EnG:li8h language, the Teutonic and 
Romanic elements in, 1, 261 ; 3, 12 ; 
still a mother-tongue in Elizabethan 
times, 1, 290 ; as a vehicle of poetic 
thought, 3, 1 ; its character before 
and after the time of Shakespeare, 
2 ; in Shakespeare's time, 5-7, 45 ; 
its gain from the infusion of Latin, 
12; the Latin radicals the more 
familiar, 14 n ; its two periods of 
poetic beauty, 18 ; Shakespeare's 
use of, 18; Dryden's and Swift's 
plans for reforming, 131 ; introduce 
tion of various polysyllables, 131 n ; 
danger of Latinisms in, 184; in 
America, 237 ; Chaucer's effect on, 
328, 335, 336 ; French words trans- 
planted into from 1660 to 1700, 4, 
16; in its purity never obsolete, 
277 ; Samuel Daniel's influence on, 
280 ; Tankeeisms in Spenser, 347 n ; 
its debt to Wordsworth, 415 ; also, 

Diyden on the knowledge of, 3, 130 ; 
on the character of, 161 ; on the use 
of Latinisms in English, 183 ; Orrery 
on mistakes in conversation, 130 n ; 
Swift on its corruption by the Court 
of Charles II., 131. 
English literature, its debt to French 
literature, 2, 2!^ ; Jonson on its de- 
cline after Shakespeare, 3, 16 ; the 
*' classical " of the older critics, 
96 ; Anglo-Saxon element in, 314 ; 
Norman influence upon, 820 ; Chau- 
cer its founder, 363; Spenser's in- 
fluence upon, 4, 276, 288; its tra- 
ditions belong to America also, 6, 
61, 68. 

of 16th century, not fostered by pat- 
ronage, 4, 292; the outgrowth of 
national conditions, 293, 295 ; effect 
of the Renaissance on, 294 ; its view 
of life, 412; quality of its scbolaT- 
ship, 6, 87 ; — of fch^ B««to!iition, 



French influence npon, 4, 11* 16t 
20 ; ashamed of its foimer provin- 
cialisnif 14; Dryden on, 15; — of 
18th century, Keats's opinion off 3, 
08 ; moral greatness impossible but 
intellectual greatness achieved, 4, 
19; — of the early 19th century, 

English poetry, its three reformers, 
Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron, 1, 
242 ; Keats's poems a reaction 
against the barrel-ors^an style, 245 ; 
its debt to Latin, 261 ; the present 
conditions of, 2, 120; the best is 
understanding aerated by imagina- 
tion, 3, 119 ; provinces of the five 
great poets, ^ 25; its apostolical 
succession, 105. 

of Chaucer's time, 3, 324, 361 ; its 
narrative qualities, 325 ; — of tlie 
15th and 16th centuries, % 265 ; — 
of 16th century, influence of Italian 
love poetry upon, 275; tlie period 
of the saurians, 278 ; compared to a 
shuttlecock, 299 ; — of the 17th cen- 
tury, Dryden on its improvement 
in his own time, 3, 154 ; — of the 
18th century, 4, 2 ; contemporary 
criticism of, 3 ; Oray's influence on, 
4 ; general discontent at the time of 
Pope's death, 6 ; extent of Pope's re- 
sponsibility for, 24. See also^ Pope. 

English politics, the system of limited 
suffrage, 6, 232; low condition of, 
251 ; political development, 6, 33. 

English prisoners among the Grecian 
bandits, 3, 238. 

English prose, its debt to Dryden, 3, 

En^flish prosody, in Shakespeare's 
time, 3, 8; Chaucer's verse, 336; 
common misunderstanding of, 338 ; 
its treatment of flnal or medial 0, 
343, 346 ; irregularities of the early 
versifiers, 348; Milton's versifica- 
tion, 4, 97 ; the sliift of the accent 
in pentameter verse, 106; eliRions 
in Milton, 106, 111 n ; participles 
in -ing normally of one syllable, 
108 ; verses ending in unaccented 
syllables, 108 ; the old metrists care- 
ful of elasticity, 109; the question 
of imperfect verses in the old dra- 
matists, 110 ; Sidney's and Spenser's 
experiments, 277 ; Spenser's mas- 
tery of, 302 ; Alexandrines, 304 ; the 
Spenserian stanza, 305 n, 328. 
Coleridge on, 3, 339 ; Masson on, 4, 
105 ; Spenser on hexameter verse, 
277. See also. Alexandrines ; Blank 
verse ; Couplets. 

English race, really cares notliing for 
art, 1, 76 ; complexity of character, 
3, 316; Norman infiuence upon, 
820 ; its S]rmpathy with the spiritual 
provincialism of the Jew, 4, 83 ; its 

nnity, 6, 46, 51, 68. See alsOf Anglo- 
English Revolution, reaction of the 

Srinciples of New England seen in, 
, 4 ; carried by means of a reli- 
gious revival, 7. 

English spelling, early vagaries of, 1, 

English tourists on Lincoln's personal 
appearance, 6, 192. 

Enghsh tragedy, 2, 131. 

English war with Spain, Williams's 
references to in 1656, 2, 32. 

Englishmen, maintain their own stand- 
ards in spite of their surroundings, 
1, 24 ; their reasons for visiting 
Italy, 124 ; lack of sentiment and im- 
agination, 196 ; with palm-branches 
in St. Peter's, 196; prefer St. 
Paul's to St. Peter's, 19i9 ; seldom 
good travellers, but pleasant travel- 
ling-companions, 199 ; their practical 
quality, 2, 6 ; tiieir failure to under- 
stand Americans, 135 ; their conser- 
vatism, 236; hard for them to un- 
derstand the impulse of southern 
races to pose, 269 ; their national 
feeling, 282 ; sensitive to criticism, 
3, 231 ; shocked at American Eng- 
lish, 232 ; the fine qualities of the 
first-rate variety, 238, 239; the old 
Tory aversion of former times for 
America, 243; they discover after 
the Civil War that Americans have 
a country, 246 ; must learn to judge 
Americans on their own merits, 253 ; 
their air of superiority in America 
caused by flnding so many poor imi- 
tations of themselves, 238 ; instances 
of rudeness in America, 241 ; in 
foreign galleries, 4, 12 ; their sensi- 
tiveness to ridicule, 12; their re- 
serve described by Barclay, 12 ; their 
fondness for foreign fashions, 13 ; 
distrust of democratic institutions 
at the opening of the American 
Civil War, 6, 181 ; their solidity of 
character, 245 ; have developed gov- 
ernment by discussion, 6, 27. See 
also, Anglo-Saxons. 

Entertaining, the power of, the first 
element of contemporary popularity, 

Enthusiasm aroused by Emerson's 
early lectures, 1, 356 ; of the Purl- 
tans, 2, 72 ; of the poet, 3, 102 ; mate- 
rial for the orator not for the states- 
man, 6, 178 ; not to be warmed over 
into anything better than cant, 186. 

Epic in prose created by Fielding, 6. 

Epic poetry, its unreality, 4, 340 n ; 
Wordsworth's determination to com- 
pose, 398. 

Epigram, French fondness for, 4, ?• 

Epimethetu. See Longfellow. 



Epittofae Obtrtiromm Virorvm^ 1, XA. 

KpitapliH, 3, 177 ii ; of KuaU, 1, *J^ ; 
iienr BoattU), 6, 4S. 

EpithotM, of iMwtantoni, 1, 14 ; of 
Hhakospcarc, 3, Xt^ ; of Cliauo(>r, 
357 : ill the ii«-li«X)l of Poi>e, 4, 10 : 
iu Dautc, Uivarol ou, Ki'J, 1G4 ; uIjmi^ 

3, ih;. 

Equal rii^lits in the opinion of the 
founders uf New Knf^laud, 2, 3. 

Equality, in Aiiierira, 1, W* ; Dr-nte 
on, 4, -M3 ; iniiKMiuble, 6, 34 ; the 
popular l)elief iu refjiirtl to, 175 ; itii 
unolwerved but steady growtli iu 
tlie American Colonies, 2()4 ; itN 
dan^erH when 8ud<lenly acquired by 
aliens, iSC). See nho^ I>enio<'Tacy. 

Erasinuit, 1, 3(rl ; his Latin style, 2, 
llM ; i^'aliKer ou, 3, 114 n. 

E-sprit lacking iu Genuau literature, 2, 

E'«sayH on favorite poets, 6, 09. 

" Kssnys and ReviewH," 2, 12. 

EMte, Villa d', hi Tivoli, 1, 132. 

Ehthwaite, his irresolution, 1, 2. 

Estliwaite, England, the simple life of, 
in Worilsworth's boyhood, 4, 359. 

Eternity, J. F. 's favorite topic of con- 
versation, 1, 90. 

Eulogv, 6, 45 ; France its native land, 
2, 2i'.9. 

EuripidoR, 2, 138 ; 3, 301 : gives hints 
of seiitiinentalism, 2, 253 ; instances 
of quibbling cited, 3, 53 n ; Ilippa- 
lytus, 4, 232. 

Europe, of value for its antiquity, 1, 
49 ; its problems all solved, and a 
deatl precipitate left, 53; the first 
sight of, 113. 

European history rich in association, 
2, 273. 

European literature of the 15th cen- 
tury, 4, 2(K>. 

Europeans, their attitude of patronage 
toward America, 3, 239. 

Eurydice confounded with Herodias, 
2, 358n. 

Eustace on Italy, 1, 127. 

Eustathius of Thessalouica on snow, 

Eutychianus, the legend of Theophilus, 

Evening, approach of, on the road to Su- 
biaco, 1, 179 ; its magic touch, 3, 222. 

Everett, Edward, 6, 29C ; his transla- 
tion of Buttman's Oreek grammar, 
6, 15G; Emerson on the enthusiasm 
of his teaching, 15G. See also, Bell 
and Everett. 

Everydayness of phrase in Dryden, 3, 

Evidence, circumstantial and personal, 
6, 118. 

Evil, a cunning propagandist, 4, 252 ; 
in itself but a cheat, 6, 130 ; by na- 
ture aggressive, 176. See aUo, Sin. 

Evil institutions, effect oo 

clinnf ter, 6. 253. 
Kwer, Dr., alcheuiiat, 2,48. 
Exolusiveness of Tliorean, 1, 871. 
Ex flutes for failures easily found, 1, 

Execution in literature, Byron's judg- 
ment regarding, 4. 42. 

Exoilu)', Dante <hi its luterpretatioii, 
4, 15K. 

Exorcixm stopped by Card. Maiarin, 
2, 371. 

Exi>edients, Justice not to be saeriflced 
to, 6, 238. 

Experience, its results of little value 
to others, 1, 21 ; 6, 91 ; individual, 
in moralfi, 4, 255 ; aUo, 258 ; 6, 191. 

Expression, Dante on, 3 17. 

Exuberaniw in writiiw, 1, 2M, 

Eyes, 3, 267. 

F. = Pres. Felton. 

Fables, 2, 2G0, 319. 

Fabliaus, 3, 314. 

Face, changes of expression on, I, 


Fact and truth in poetry distinguished, 

Facts, uncomfortable to tiie sentimen- 
talist, 2, 250 ; their sigidfioance, 6. 

Failure, 2, 92. 

Fairs, English, Harvard Commenoe- 
ment likened to, 1, 79. 

Fairy tales, 6 ,17. 

Fairies, 2, 315. 

Faith, the stage of astrdofiy and 
alchemy still persists, 2, 878; 
Dante's teaching on, 4k, 1^4. 

Faith and Work, the bases of the Pu- 
ritan commonwealth, 2, 7S. 

Faith in Ood, 6, 130. 

Falstaff, 3, 19 ; his regiment, 6, 5& 

Fame, as worn by Washington All- 
ston, 1, 77 ; as embalmed in bibli- 
ographies, 317; distinguished fhna 
notoriety, 2, 272; in Europe wul 
America, 276 ; posthumous, 3, 100 ; 
immortality of, 278; alto^ 4, 120. 
See aUo, American fame. 

Fame, literary, frequently of brief 
duration, 2, 77 ; what is required to 
make it living, 79, 246 ; importance 
of imagination, 79, and of art, 80 ; 
depends on the sum of an autlior'a 
powers, 81. 

Fanaticism, 6, 112; becomes conser- 
vatism wlien established in power, 
2, G; not truly characteristic Q<tii0 
New England Puritans, 6, 9. 

Fancy, the rude treatment reoe i vBd 
by, on entering Rome, 1, 189 ; tfei 
activity in darkness, 2, 386. 

Fancy and judgment compared tea 
rocket and its stick, 2, 81. jSmoIm^ 



Fancy balls, English, 1, 199. 

Farmer on Shakespeare, 3, 46. 

Farr, editor of Wither's poems, absur- 
dity of some of his assertions, 1, 
*j^ ; inaccuracy of his quotations, 
260; his misstatements, 261. 

Fashion, its power, 4, 11. 

Fastidiousness, 2, 234. 

Fate, the Greek conception of, 2, 124 ; 
3, 57 ; 6, 320 ; the modem recogni- 
tion of, 2, 125. 

Faults, men judged by little faults, 1, 
85 ; expiated by suffering, 6, 77. 

Fauriel, on prosaic poetry, 3, 162 n ; 
on mediaeval romances in Proven- 
gal, 309. 

Faust, the spirit of discontent, 2, 128 ; 
cited by Walburger as an instance 
of bodily* deportation, 354; Wierus 
doubts the story, 354 ; cUso. 1, 107 : 
2, 333; 4, 254. 

Faustrecht, 2, 94. 

Fear makes men cruel, 2, 374. 

Federalists, 2, 301. 

Felicity, lines on, 2, 312. 

Fellowships, university, 6, 168. 

Felltham, Owen, 1, 308, 3, 185, n. 

Felton, President C. C, hia laugh, 1, 

Fenians, 6, 318; attitude of Congreas 
toward, 322. 

Fenianism, 2, 375. 

Ferabrcu cited, 1, 325. 

Ferrex and Porrex. See Bickvllle. 

Fessenden, Senator, 6, 198. 

Feudalism, effect on commerce, 3, 247. 

Feuillet, Octave, Sainte-Beuve's nick- 
name for, 6, 62. 

Fickleness not fairly to be charged to 
democracy, 2, 311. 

Fiction, the realistic novel invented 
by Fielding, 6, 64 ; the novel before 
Fielding, 65 ; the reading of, profit- 
able, 95; Cervantes the father of 
the modern novel, 135; historical 
fiction, 6, 123. See cUsOy French fic- 

Fidelity, characteristic of Prof. Pop- 
kin, 1, 93. 

FuLDiKO, Hbmrt, Address on unveil- 
ing his bust, Sept. 4, 1883, 6, 51- 
67; hia absolute sincerity, 55; his 
imagination of secondary order, 55 ; 
has no tragic power but much 
pathos, 55 ; liis characters real, but 
not typical, 56, 65 ; a humorist, 56 ; 
quality of liis coarseness, 57 ; opin- 
ions of English literary men on him, 
67 ; Dobsou's life of, 57 ; the few 
facts of his life, 58 ; habits of study 
and industry, 58 ; his early drama- 
tic pieces show little real knowledge 
of life, 59 ; his nature coarse and 
sensual, but with admiration for the 
best things of his time, 59: the 
coaneneas of hia age, 60 ; hia bluut- 

nesfl of speech more wholesome than 
the refinement of some modem crit- 
ics, 60 ; painted vice as a figure in 
the social landscape, 61 ; his pur- 
pose moral, 61 ; acknowledged in 
his epitaph in Lisbon, 61 ; his con- 
tempt for sentimentality, 62 ; mis- 
taken estimate of refinement, 62; 
opinion of Richardson, 62 ; his love 
of truth, 62 ; h?s force and direct- 
ness, 62; compared with Hogarth, 
63 ; invented the realistic novel, 64 ; 
his work marks an epoch, 64 ; his 
Squire Western and Parson Adams, 
65, 135; 1, 317; the beauty of his 
style, 6, 66 ; compared with Swift, 
66 ; his character, 66 ; Cervantes* 
influence upon, 135 ; his remarks on 
travellers, 1, 120 ; his humor, 278 ; 
his humor reappears in Carlyle, 2, 
82 ; a/«o, 1, 364 ; 2, 217 ; 3, 58, 321, 
Thackeray on, 6, 63 ; Byron on, 64. 

Fiesole, 4, 118. 

Fifth Monarchy men, 1, 362 ; 2, 9, 31. 

Fighting period of life, 1, 361. 

Figures can be made to fight on both 
sides, 6f 216. See alsoy Statistics. 

Figures of speech and figures of sta- 
tistics, 6, 58. 

Filelf o, 4, 142. 

Fillmore, Millard, Pres., 6. 291, 296. 

Finance, value of an M. Cf.'s observa- 
tions on, 3, 198 ; generally prudent 
management of, in towns, 6, 11* 

Fine Arts. See Art. 

Fiusbury Circus, 1, 220. 

Firdusi, 4, 270 ; poetry of the Trou- 
v^res compared to, 3, 311. 

Fire, in a wongen after moose-hunting, 
1, 37 ; at the Sibilla in Tivoli, 145 ; 
pleasure of playing with, 202 ; Vir- 
gil's and Ovid's lines on kindling, 3. 

Fire on the hearth described, 1, 60 ; 
its pleasures in winter, 3, 272. 

Fireside voyages, 1, 52. 

Fireworks, damp, X's laughter com- 
pared to, 1, 117. 

Fishes' nests in trees, incongruities of 
life compared to, 1, 86. 

Fisher, Cardinal, 2, 22. 

Fishing in the Maine woods, 1, 41. 

Fisk, James, 4, 178. 

Fitzgerald, Edward, 1, 289 ; 6, 72 ; on 
Don Quixote, 135. 

Flail-beat, 1, 186. 

Flame, Washington Allston's face com- 
pared to pale flame, 1, 73. 

Flaxman, 2, 124. 

Fleas, humorous confidences on the 
subject, 1, 127. 

Fleming, Marjorie, her diflBculties with 
the multiplication table, 6, 164. 

Fletcher, Giles, 1, 278; 2,223; 3, 3» 
801 ; his Purple Island, 4, 297 n. 



Fletcher, Phinefau, PUeatory Ee- 
logues, 4, 300. 

Flip. Port«TV 1, 8C. 

Flodden t^rhl cited, 1, Ml. 

FlogfriiiK, 1, '2M ; as a ineaus of edu* 
catiou, 2, ''SfK ; 6, 103 ; iimemoiiic 
Tirtue of, 3, tO. 

Floreuce, 1, TJl ; better liked than 
Rome, 213 ; the Bt:itue8 of the UOIkj, 
a, *I»\ ; it« early hirttory, 4, 118 : itu 
great men. 111) ; the Campanile, 119 : 
its political fai'tioiu iu Daute's tune, 
rJG, l'.xJ: hiHtory of, from 12113, 
128 ; tlte Neri uud Biaiichi in 13(KI, 
130 ; ita tanly a])preciation of DuiiU*, 
141 ; a cenutaph uf Duiite erected 
in 1829, 142. 

Florida, her proposal to secede absurd, 

Flowers, Keath's enjoyment of, 1, 240. 

Floyd, J. B., 5, »1, 80. 

Flunlceyi»m, ideal, uf Carlyle, 2, 105. 

Fl>'inK fish, 1, 1<)2. 

Flying horses, children's pleasure on, 
1, 79. 

Foibles, human, as treated by Shake- 
speare, 1, 279. 

Folklore, 2, 314. 

Force, brute, Carlyle's belief in, 2, 

Force in writing, the pecret of, 3, 14. 

SCENSION IN, 3, 220-254; consider 
that they confer a favor on the 
country the^ visit, 224 ; a German 
beggar's o]>niions of America, 229 ; 
consider Americans too sensitive to 
criticism, 232. 

Forest of Arden, 1, 4t. 

Forest primeval, as seen from a 
mountain top, 1, 40. 

Forgiveness, Drydeu's lines on, 3, 1G7, 

Forks brought from Italy by Tom 
Coryate, 1, 12G, 200. 

Form, its pr()i)er fimction, 2, 136, 138. 
See afso, Style. 

Formalism of the later Puritanism, 

Forster, Oeorg, on Rnmler, 2, 200 n. 

Forsyth on Italy, 1, 120. 

Fortescue, General, letter to, from 
Cromwell (1055), 2, 30. 

Fortune, herself the sport of Fate, 
verses on, 1, 157 ; lines on, 2, 312. 

Fortune, Temple of, at Palestrina, 1, 

Fortune-hunters, a way of getting 
rid ox, suggested, 2, 307. 

Forum, Roman. See Rome — Porum. 

Foscolo, Ugo, on Dante, 4, 134 ; on 
the condemnation of part of the Div, 
Com. by the Inquisition, 143 ; on the 
date of the Divina ComviediOy 150 ; 
on Dante's critics, 1('4 ; on likeness 
of Milton to Dante, 171 ; aUo^ 109 n. 

Fossil footprints, 3, 278. 

Foster, John, the liennit of Cam- 
bridge, 1, 89. 

Fountains Abbey, 1, 84 ; the dnuy 
white statues, 21S. 

Fouqu^, his Undine^ 4, 82. 

Fourth of July celebratio|ia, 1, 203. 

Fowls, 1, 186; at the inn iu Fale*- 
triiia, 1(K). 

Fox, Charles J., compared with Daniel 
Webster, 2, 275; opinioxi of Dry- 
den's translation of Horace, 3. 114 n; 
letter to Wordsworth, 4, 881. 

Fox, George, 1, 302 ; one of his books 
sent to J. Winthrop, Jr., 2, 64, 66. 

France, the sufirage iu, b, 804 ; the 
causes of the Revolution, 6* 16 ; a 
manufat'turer of small politiduui 
to-day, 208. 

in 17'.L', 4, 3C5 ; — hi 1815, wise re- 
constructive measures, 6, 321 ; — in 
1801, recognizes the Southern States 
as belligerents, 249. 

Francesca, Dante's tendemeaa to- 
wards, 4, 171. 

Fran(;ia, Dr., Carlyle on, 2, 95. 

Fi'ancioiiy 6, 64. 

Francis, St., 6, 119. 

Franconia Notch, talk with e man at 
a saw-mill, 1, 2. 

Frangipani, ancestors of Dante, ^ 128. 

Franklin, Benjamhi, 2, 154 ; 3, 863. 

Frascati, the ndlroad to, 1, 160. 

Fraser, the Scotch gudener in Cam- 
bridge, 1, 66. 

Fraunce, Abraham, a passage of Mil- 
ton traced to, 1, 316. 

Fre<Ierick the Great, his portrait hi 
the Cambridge barber's shop, 1, 
02 ; his treatment of Carlyle imag- 
ined, 2, 94 ; his kingdom, hla pri- 
vate patrimony, 110 ; his contempt 
for Grerman literature, 111 ; the nar- 
row limits of his nature, 112; hia 
popularity, 112 ; few people at- 
tached to him, 113 ; KnebePs Jndg- 
ment of him. 113; his inherited 
traits, 114; had no genhis but a 
masterly talent for organicatiou, 
114; his contempt f or all dvil die* 
tiuction, 115; refuses to appoint 
Lessing librarian, 206; his prafer- 
euce for French literature, 220. 

Free lectures and entertainments, 3. 

Free schools. 6, 170. 

Free trade, its slow growth in Eng- 
land, 6, 187 ; in America, 203. 

Freedmeu, will require spedal pn^ 
tection, 6, 223 ; must be made land- 
holders, 228, and voters, 228 ; their 
inherent right to suffrage in a de* 
mocracy, 230 ; the proposition to set- 
tle them by themselves in a separate 
district, 231 : the nation's du^ to- 
ward, 311, 324 ; the effect of John* 



•on^s policy upon, 320 ; compared to 
the new holders of land in France, 

Freedom, Barbour's lines on, 4, 2G9 ; 
Wordsworth's consistent devotion 
to, 6, 10*2. See also^ Liberty. 

Freedom of thought, its debt to Vol- 
taire, 2, 2G3. 

Freedom of the will, the comer-stone 
of Dante's system, 4, 238, 244. 

French, Jonathan, minister at An- 
dover, 2, 208. 

Frencli Academy encourages the 
eulogistic stylo, 2, 2(J9. 

French army in Rome, 1, 60. 

French cooks, the secret of their art 
applicable to good writing, 3, 119. 

French criticism, 2, IGG ; its defect, 
4, 9; confounds the common with 
the vulgar, 20. 

French drama, effect of the demands 
of rhyme upon its style, 3, 158 ; 
Dryden on, 159, IGO; Goethe's 
study of, 102. 

French Action, of the corps-de-ballet 
variety, 3, 153. 

French humor, appeals to the whole 
nation, 2, 278. 

French language, spoken by Engl^Bh 
touritittt and Italian guides, 1. 198 ; 
Dryden on its character, 3, 101 ; un- 
suited for translating D.iiite, 4, 145. 

French literature, its quality of style, 
2, 105 ; its influence on German, 
and on all modern literature, 220 ; 
the school of the cuUists, 4, 8 ; its 
quality, 20 ; at one time both grave 
and profound, 310 n ; in the IGth 
and 17th centuries, 293 n. 

French officers in the Revolution- 
ary War, 3, 240. 

French poetry, Gray on, 3, 102 ; Fau- 
riol on, 102 n ; Norman influence 
upon, 314 ; rules of pronunciation, 
ai4 : Dante familiar with, 4, 212 n. 
See also, TrouvArea. 
of 18th century, its style overran 
Europe, 4, 7 ; Voltaire's difficulties 
with, 7. 

French politics benumbed by a 
creeping paralysis, 6, 198. 

French prosody, the treatment of 
flual and medial e, 3| 344, 34G. 

French realists, delight in impurity, 

French Revolution, Burke's fury 
ngninst, 2,234; its symptoms seen 
in Rousseau's writings, 203 ; failure 
of its attempt to make over human 
nature, 2(>4 ; prefigured by the giant 
of Spenser, 4, 350 ; its political les- 
sons, 6, 180; Napoleon on, 6, 33; 
Wordsworth's view of, 103 ; tried 
to reform society after tlie fasliion 
of Don Quixote, 124 ; also, 4, 3G7 ; 
6, 218. 

French Revolutionists aped the Ro- 
man republic, 2, 288. 

French romance, its long-winded* 
ness, 3, 325. 

French schools, the teaching in, 6, 

French soldiers in Rome, 1, 189. 

French standards, English judgment 
of, 2, 208. 

French tragedy, 2, 131 ; 3, 66. 

Frenchmen, their reasons for visiting 
Italy, 1, 123 ; American feeling to- 
ward, 124 ; sensitive to criticism, 3, 
231 ; their contempt for Americans, 
239; on America, 241; delight in 
elegantly turned phrases, 4, 7; 
quality of their intellect, 20 ; morals 
said to have been corrupted by 
America, 6, 12. 

Fresh Pond meadows, 3, 222. 

Friendship, 2, 255. 

Frittata for supper at Bubiaco, 1, 

Frobisher, Sir Martin, 2, 290. 

Froissart, 3, 295; description of a 
book, 338 n; treatment of final «, 
347 ; his Chronicles, B, 121. 

Frost, his exquisite handiwork, 3, 286. 

Froude on Henry VIII., 5, 124. 

Fugitive Slave Law, 6, 290 ; for run- 
away states, 54. 

Fuller. Thomas, 1, 281 ; on self-exam- 
ination, 44 ; gives an example of re- 
tributive justice, 6, 128. 

Fulton, 2, 154. 

Funerals, 3, 256 ; the fiend's sugges- 
tion at, 2, 370. 

Furies v. Orestes, before the Areopa- 
gus, 2, 308 n. 

Furnivall, F. J., founder of the Chau- 
cer Society, 3, 297. 

Fuseli, 1, 173 ; 4, 317 n. 

Future life, its necessity i*eoognLeed by 
the gentile world, 6, 127. 

Gaelic not understood by the spirits, 

Gaetani, 1, 130. 

Galileo, 3, 10 ; 6, 13. 

Gallo-BLoman culture, 3, SOS. 

Gambetta, 6, 208. 

Oammer Gurton^s Needle, 4, 800. 

Gano, 3, 227. 

Garden acquaintanob, Mt, 3, 192- 

Gardens, Italian, 1, 216. 

Gardner, Capt. Joseph, 2, 57. 

Gabfibld, J. A., President, addreso 
on the death of, London, Sept. 24, 
1881, 6, 38 ; the English expressions 
of sympathy on occasion of his 
death, 38, 40 ; the death-scene unex- 
ampled, 41 ; his good nature, 42 ; his 
death truly for his country, 43 ; his 
character, 43; completeness of his 
Uf e, 44 ; endeared to all men, 44 ; 



frayera for his recoTery offered in 
^li*«tiue, 44; hi« grtrat qualitiei, 

Gartield, Mrs., ber devoteducss, 6i 

GaribaMi, his career in Sicily watched 

with intereHt, 6, 17. ■ 

Garinet quoted, 2, W7. ! 

Garrick, anecdote of hin counterfeit- ! 

ing druiikenneitB, 2, U>3 ; in H.imlet, | 

3, l>9; omitted the grave-Uiggera' 
scene, 73. 

Garrow, translation of the Mia yuora^ 

4, 14U. 

Garth, Dr., suggests the addition of ' 
the Sylphs to the Utipe of the JMCk^ 

Gaitooigne, 3, 31o ; 4, 274 ; quoted, 1, 

Gatehurst, house of Sir K. Digby, 2, 


Giiwayne cite<l, 1, 328. 
Geew. See umier Binls. 
Gellert, 2, 'JliJ ; Mozart on, 139. 
6eneaI(>Ki<'A made to order, 1, 318. 
Gfiierul, Kyiupathy with, in defeat, 6, 

9*2 ; i<lealized by his country, 93. 
GeneralitieR, 6, -81. 
Generosity of American rich men, 6, ; 

Genezzano, viHit to, 1, 1G3-170. 
Geniality, 1, 87. 
Genius coinjiared with talent, 1, 84 : 2, 

240; the moaning of th'e word, 1, | 

87 ; allowed to repeat itself, 332 ; 

neglect by the World not a proof of, 

2, 147 ; does not discover itself, 1(X). 
genius and character, 171 ; never an 

impostor, 240, 244 ; its mantery, 241 ; 
the world not ungr.itoful to, 242 ; 
alone exempt from examination of 
character, 257 ; Johnson's theory of, 

3, 14C; the test of, 293; the two 
kinds of, 4, 28 ; Browning on, 6, 
54; its creative office in literature, 
54 ; never finds life commonplace, 
54; nho,2, UK); 3, G5, 357. 

of Washington AUston, 1, 77 ; of 
President Kirkland, 83 ; recognized 
in Koat?, 242 ; absent in Frederick 
the Great, 2, 114 ; of Wonlswortli, 
148 ; of Lessing, 224 ; of Shake- 
speare, 244; of Coleridge, 6, 77. 

Gentility, Pope's notion of, 3, 188 n. 

Gentlemen, the men speoinlly created 
to be Kuch, 1, 72 ; proof in Emerson 
that Democracy <'an develop them, 
3(58 ; drawn by Shakespeare, 3, 92 ; 
the end of education to produce true 
gentlemen, 6, 177. 

Geographies formerly works of fancy 
and imagination, 1, 110. 

Geology, influence of its discoveries on 
human annals, 6, 138. 

George III. and his violin teacher, an- 
ecdote of, 1, 219; the Gratulatio 

presented to, by Hanrud Collete, 6^ 
G«»orge, Henry, 6 35. 

iifurtfe HarnwtU, a tragedy. S09 

Lillo. ' 
German criticism, 2, 1G6 ; iU borrow- 
ing pro{ieuMities, 1(3; itwlii^^ to 
over-subtlety, 6, 122. 
German humor, 2, 105, 1G9. 
German language, its reacUonoaatyle, 

2, li'4. 
German learning, suppliea lantemabot 
not the light, 2, 101 ; like the ele- 
phants of Pyrrhus, ICG ; the world** 
debt to, KMi ; its dangers, 6, 152. 

German literature, Carlyle's relation to 
the ** storm and thrust ** period, 2f 
93 : Fnnierirk the Great^s contempt 
for, 112; its want of etprit, 165; 
cuuhe of its lack of style, 1C7 ; ita 
seeking after some foreign mould, 
107 ; its sentiment, 1G8 ; Leasing the 
first to have a conception of style, 
172; value of Losbing^s influence 
upon, 229. 

of the 18th century, a pretenttoas 
sham, 2, 218; its pedantry and 
provinclaliMu, 220; ita relation to 
French, 220. 

German Muse, 2, 183. 

German poetry, the romantio more- 
ment, 2, 139. 

Germans, their reasons for Tlsltlng 
Italy, 1, 123 ; their idea of humor» 
2, 90 ; their fondness for mareV 
nests, 1C3 ; supply raw materials for 
other minds to work upon, 1G5; 
their want of tact, 1G7 ; their na- 
tional stoicism, 227; aenaitiTe to 
criticism, 3, 231 ; their contempt 
for America, 239. 

Germany, the political ccmdition of the 
U. B. before the war compared to, 
6, 310 ; love of country impoealble 
in, in the 18th cent., 2, 203. 

Gervinus, on Shakespeare, 2,168; 8, 
(>8 ; on Wolfram von Eadienbaoh** 
Parzival, 4, 231. 

Get^ler's hat, 2, 218. 

Gcsta Eomanorum^ 2, 2^ 

GcKticulating students, 1, 66. 

Gettysburg, 3, 223. 

Gevaudan, the wild beast of, 2, 362. 

Ghiberti, 4, 119. 

Ghosts. See Apparitions; Haunted 

Giant, Canadian, at Commenoemeiife» 

Gibbon, 2, 237. 

GifFord, William, 1, 229; abuae of 
Keats in the Quarterly, 226; tlM 
best editor of early literature, S(18. 

Gift of tongues, its spread among tks 
transcendentalists, 1, 362. 

Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, 2, 290. 

Gil Blot. See LeSage. 



Gflchrist, his oontroverav with Bowles, 
4 54. 

Oill', Alexander, 4, 123. 

Giotto, 4, 119 ; Daute his friend, 125. 

Oiraldi, 3, 364. 

Glacier, encroachments of slayeiy com- 
pared to, 6, 43. 

Gladiators, 6, 126. 

Gladstone, W. £., 6, 208. 

Glan vil, Joseph, accounts of witchcraft, 
2, 338 ; on the allej^ed transporta- 
tion of witches, 354 ; believed in 
witchcraft, 377 ; his Sadducismus 
Triumphatu*^ 11. 

Glass model of a ship in the Cam- 
bridge barber's shop, 1, 63. 

Glaucus, 2, 79. 

Glees 4 97. 

Gleun, Job. Wilh. Lud., 2, 197, 200 ; 
Leasing'a advice to, 203. 

Gliddon, 6, 220. 

Glory, departed, its ghost lingers, 1, 
191. See also. Fame. 

God, the Emperor of Heaven in Dante*s 
idea, 4, 242 n ; Dante's vision of, 
256 ; the methods of the divine jus- 
tice, 6, 128. See also, Providence. 

Godeau, on snow, 3, 275. 

Goethe, Carlyle and Emerson both dis- 
ciples of, 1, 307; attracted to al- 
chemy, 2, 47 ; the imaginative qual- 
ity in his works uniform, 85; his 
influence on Carlyle, 85; a Euro- 
pean poet, 121 ; Schiller's verses to, 
quoted, 124 ; his comedies dull, 146 ; 
his struggle to emancipate himself 
from Germany, 150 ; lack of coher- 
ence in his longer works, 167 ; early 
notes to Frau von Stein, 168; in 
Werthermontirting, 169; grandness 
of his figure, 172 ; sacrificed moral- 
ity to poetic sense, 195; his visit 
to Gottsched, 218; takes pleasure 
in his hypothetical despair, 251; 
essentially an observer, and inca- 
pable of partisanship, 3, 2 ; got his 
knowledge of classics second hand, 
46 ; uncontemporaneous nature, 101 ; 
paid slight attention to Dante, 4, 
145 ; early love of Gothic, 235 ; pos- 
sibly uifluenced Wordsworth, 380 ; 
compared with Wordsworth, 413 ; 
his teaching of self-culture, 6, 103 ; 
also, 1, 357 304 ; 2, 174, 187, 207 n, 
308 ; 3, 25, 301, 355 ; 4, 61, IGl. 

on the failure to escape one's own 
shadow, 1, 121 ; on Italy, 126 ; on 
the German idea of humor, 2, 90 ; 
on the office of the Muse, 108; on 
Milton's iSa/zifon Agonistes, 133; on 
Leasing as a genius, 231 ; on the dis- 
tinction between the ancient and 
modern drama, 3, 57 ; on Shake- 
speare, 63, 66 ; on Hamlet, 87 ; com- 
pares a poem to a painted window, 
67 ; on destructiTe and productive 

criticism, 67 ; on thinking pen in 
hand, 123; on the French drama, 
162 : on snow in sunshine, 267. 
AchUleU, 2, 129; 3, 47; Faust, 
written without thought of its 
deeper meaning, 90 ; the second part, 
a, 139, 168 ; 4, 145 ; Gotz van Ber- 
lichingen, 3, 63; — Harz-reise im 
Winter, 267 ; — Hermann und Dor' 
othea, 2, 129 ; 3, 46 ; — Iphigenie, 2, 
133 ; — Roman Idylls, 129 ; — Ueber 
alien Gip/eln, 4, 370 ; — Werther^ 
2, 251 ; — WUhelm Meister, 167 5 
Wordsworth on, 4, 380. 
Gotz of the Iron Hand, Carlyle's tyjie 

of the highest, 2, 94. 
Goffe, Col., of Deerfield, 2, 292 ; Prof. 

P. compared to, 1, 93. 
Gold of the poet, 2, 78. 
Golden age, behind every generation, 

Gold-fish in a vase compared to self- 
absorbed travellers, 1, 49. 
Goldsmith, his description of a mutual 
admiration society, 2, 201 ; his fig- 
ure of the lengthening chain,' 3, 
136 n ; Wordsworth familiar with, 
4, 360 n, 361 : his influence on 
Wordsworth, 369, 370; also, 3, 357, 
Deserted Village, 2, 135 ; 4, 370 ; — 
Traveller, 370;— Vicaf of IVake- 
field, 2, 104, 168. 
Golias, Bishop, 1, 84 ; 6, 151 ; his 
motto appropriate for Americans, 
Gougora, poet of the cultist school, 4, 

Gonzales, Manuel, on servants in Lon- 
don, 2, 45. 
Good, in itself infinitely and eternally 
lovely, 6, 130; its conquests silei^ 
and beneficent, 176. 
Good luck, 4, 391. 

Good nature, 6, 42; Dryden on, 3, 
176; fostered by a democracy, 6, 
Good society, 3, 232 ; Dante's notions 
of, 4, 176 ; to be found more easily 
in books than in the world, 6, 84. 
Good taste the conscience of the mind, 

6, 178. 
Goodliness of the world, 3, 222. 
Goose, Mother. See Mother Goose, 3, 

Gorboduc. See Sackrille. 
Gosling, Lady, lier obituary, 2, 219. 
Gothic, lack of agreement with the 

Roman, 1, 103. 
Gothic cathedral, impressiveness and 
nobleness of, 1, 206 ; unmntched in 
ancient art, 212 ; the vinible symbol 
of an inward faith, 4, 234 ; compared 
to the Divine Comedy, 236. 
Gottsched, Lessing on, 2, 175; his 
Art of poetry, 2\%; Goethe's visit to^ 



218; hit anrvioe to German litera- 
ture, 219. 
Gout, 8, 13. 

Goveruuieut, Dante on, 4, 243 ; Machi- 
avelli on the duration of, 6, 36 ; the 
ahsurdity of the lauses-faire system 
■hown by Buchanan, 47, 56 ; stabil- 
ity the first requisite of, CO ; extent 
of dominion an advantage, 66; 
bound to enforce its laws, 74 ; an 
oligarchy built on men and a com- 
monwealth built of them, 89; the 
resources of prestige and sentiment 
greater for an hereditary ruler, 184 ; 
self-defence its first duty, 186 ; that 
which makes a nation great in every 
fibre to be preferred to tliat which 
produces great men, 216 ; the Anglo- 
Saxon mind prefers a practical sys- 
tem, the French a theoretical, 218 ; 
in the Old World and in the New. 
251 ; resides fai the rights of all, 304 ; 
the duties distinguished from the 
rights of self-government, 305 ; the 
fauings of all forms of , 8, 27 ; gov- 
ernment by discussion and by a ma- 
jority of voices, 27 ; men of ability 
smre to govern in the end, 29 ; tlie 
name of the system unimportant, 33 ; 
unwrittmi constitutions, 34. See 
aUo, Politics ; Statesmanship. 
Ctovemor of Massachusetts, his ap- 
pearance <m artillery-election days, 
■, 68. 

irer, Ohaocer on, 3, 321 ; his dul- 

~^, 329; his use of rhyme, 329, 
i a<«o, 346. 

.- at the Harvard Commencement 


idaate, oldest survivii^, his advan- 

iges, 1, 82. 

afty, Mrs., of Graven St., Fhisbury, 
her recollections of Keats, 1, 223. 
Jrahame, on winter, 3, 272. 
Orandier, Urbain, witnesses at his trial, 
2, 366 ; the object of a conspiracy, 

Chnrndfloqueat style, by whom used, 2, 

Cbangier, first French translation of 

Grant, General, Lincoln^s remark in 
relation to, 3, 149 n. 

Qranuflo in Marston^s Faton^ 1, 266, 

Gratis-instinct in human nature, 3, 

Gray, Thomas, his art, 2, 80 ; fond- 
ness for Latin poems, 1'20 ; iuRpired 
by Collins, 4^ 4 ; Wordsworth^sdebt 
to, 4 n, 361 ; hiH taute, 6 u ; Spenser ^s 
influence upon, 352 ; occiRional 
touch of coarseness, 6, GO ; also, 2, 
146 ; 3, 269, 363 ; 6, 108. 
on Qxr*- '-houglits, 3, 10 n ; on Dry- 
den, n, 173 ; on French poetry, 

162 n ; on Dyer, 4, 5 n ; on ^» 
condition of the Engiish colleges, 6. 
Progress of Poesy ^ 4, 4 ; — Sonnet on 
the Death of West^ a verse traced to 
Lucretius, 5 u. 

Orazziui, 3, 364. 

Great deeds, the ghosts of, haunt their 
graves, 1, 191. 

Great men, seldom discovered in their 
own lifetime, 1, 74 ; 2, 32 ; the re- 
sult of combining every one's remi- 
niscences of, considered, 1, 74 ; Bos- 
well's predilection for, 123 ; stories 
of tlieir childhood, 223 ; the valet de 
chambre estimate of, 2, 267; in 
America, 280 ; cliaracteristics of, 3, 
104 ; their parentage and early sur> 
roundings, 4, 362 ; their production 
tlie glory but not the duty of a coun- 
try, 6, 216 ; 6, 209 ; their effect on 
history, 91 ; the importance of, 208 ; 
also^ 2, 281 ; 6, 46. 

Gbbat Public Characteb, A [Josiah 
Quincy], 2, 272-312. 

Greatness, seems a simple thing to it- 
self, 2, 160. 

Greek architecture, sameness of effect 
in public buildings, 1, 213 ; its com- 
pleteness, 4, 233. 

Greek art, 3, 366. 

Greek drama, its conventional forms 
not applicable to modem drama, 2, 
130 ; the modem opera and oratorio 
compared to, 132 ; Samson Ago- 
nisteSf its best modem reproduc- 
tion, 133 ; objections to servile copy- 
ing of its form and style, 136 ; diffi- 
culty of regaining tlie Greek point 
of view, 137 ; tlie three stages of 
Greek tragedy, 138; its simplicity 
in form, not in expression, 3, 39; 
parallel passages noted in Shake- 
speare, 49 ; contrasted with the mod- 
em in its motive, 66 ; its personages 
types, not individuals, 58 ; keeps its 
hold on men's minds, 65 ; its sim- 
plicity, 4, 232; its relation to tiie 
higlier powers, 233; its complete- 

ness, 233. 

Greek gods in Greek literature, 4, 233. 

Greek idetd, the striving after, 2, 124. 

Greek language, tlie study of, 6, 164 ; 
its flexibility and precision, 166. 

Greek literature, Cicero's twaddle 
about, 1, 100 ; tlie best attitude 
toward it, 2, 127 ; its relation to 
modem literature, 127-139; prob- 
able truth of modem imitations, 
136; in what renpects it should be 
followed, 13S; its quality, 3, 32; 
misfortune of applying it to drill in 
grammar, 33; still furnishes the 
standards for modern work, 34; 
Prof. Popkiu's appreciation of, 6f 
152 ; its living quality, 165 ; value ol 



the study of, 166. See cUso, Clas- 

Oreek sculpture, 4, 1 19. 

Greek thought contrasted with mod- 
ern thought, 2, 136. 

Greeks, their artistic nature, how to 
gain a true conception of, 1, 48. 

Greeley, Horace, his intimate know- 
ledge of our politics, 6| 138; his 
The American Conflict contrasted 
with Pollard's Southern History y\2fi ; 
its style, 138 ; its fairness, 139. 

Green, Christian, witch, 2, 340. 

Greenough, the sculptor, 6, 151. 

Greenville, Maine, reached late at 
night, 1, 12. 

Greenwood's museum in Boston, 1, 

Gregariousness of men, 2, 386. 

Gridiron, its use unknown in northern 
Maine, 1, 8. 

Grief desiring other company than its 
own, 2, 248 ; idealized, 297 ; ex- 
pressed in elegies, 3, 117. 

Grimes, Senator, 6, 198. 

Grimm, Baron, anecdote of Garrick and 
Pr^ville counterfeiting drunkenness, 
2, 103 ; his style in French, 167 ; on 
Lessing's Fables, 197 ; story of the 
Parisian showman, 6, 24. 

Grimm, Jacob, on the mandrake's 
groan, 1, 275 ; on the survival of 
heathen divinities, 2, 327; on the 
raven, 348 ; on the use of broom- 
sticks by witches, 356. 

Groceries in Cambridge, 1, 63. 

Grouse cooked before the fire, 1, 26. 

Growing-pains, 6, 17. 

Groyne, Tlie, or CoruSa, 1, 66. 

Guarini, Jonson on, 4, 301 n. 

Guelfs and Gliibellines in Italy in 13th 
century, 4, 129. 

Guest, Edwin, verse-deaf, 3, 346. 

Guides in Italy, 1, 134 ; their office 
deadly to sentiment, 141; demands 
for more payment, 175 ; delightful 
absence of, in an American town, 

Guide's Hours, Spenser's verses com- 
pared to, 4, 310. 

Guide Novello da Polenta, 4, 135, 136. 

Guinicelli, Guido, 4, 229 n. 

Guizot, on the measure of endurance 
of the United States, 6, 207. 

Gunpowder, 2, 325. 

Gurowski, Count, on absence of sing- 
ing-birds in America, 3, 212. 

Guy-Fawkes procession succeeded by 
the Comwallis, 1, 77. 

Guyot, 3, 240. 

Gymnasium, 1, 186. 

Habbakuk cited as an instance of cor- 
poreal deportation, 2, 353. 
Haddock, James, apparition of, 2,322. 
Hadrian, hU villa in TivoU, 1, 186; 

why he took three days to reach it 
from Rome, 153. 

Hagedom, 2, 146; Leasing^s regard 
for, 219, 

Hailes, Lord, on Dunbar's Dance of 
the Seven Deadly Sins^ 4, 269. 

Hair, Washington Allston's, 1, 73. 

Hair-cutting in the Cambridge bar- 
ber's shop, 1, 61. 

Hakluyt's Voyages, the language off 
3, 6; 4,92. 

Hale, E. B., on orioles' nests, 3, 210. 

Hales, Mr., on the date of Spenser's 
birth, ^ 284 n. 

Hall, Bishop, Milton's quotation of 
lines from, 4, 94 ; his Satires., 94 n. 

Hallam on Oldham, 3, 177. 

Halliwell, J. O., editor of Marston's 
works, his poor English, 1, 262 ; 
his vague notions of Latin, 2(k ; his 
bad editing, 264; his emendations 
and explanations, 272. 

Halpine, Major 0. G., on Spenser's 
Rosallnde and on his wife, 4, 285 ti. 

Halpine, Rev. N. J., his Oberon^ 4. 
285 n. 

Hamlet, dallies with suicide, 2, 161 ; 
on ghosts, 326. See alsOy Shake- 

Hammond, Mr., proclaims the acces- 
sion of King Cotton, 6, 22. 

Hamon's picture of wise men before a 
Punch's theatre, 2. 104. 

Hancock, Gov., 1, 65 ; J. Quincy's ac- 
count of a dinner by, 2, 294. 

Hard-headed people, 6, 95. 

Hares, Dr. Kitchener's dictum on, 2, 

Harney, Gen., 6, 62. 

Harrington, Sir John, on poetry, 4, 

Harris, Sir Nicholas, his life of Chau- 
cer, 3, 294. 

Harrison, General G., 2, 31. 

Hartington, Marquis of, at a publio 
ball in New Tork, 3, 242 ; presented 
to President Lincoln, 242 u. 

Harvard, John, 6, 82, 141. 

Harvard, the sloop, 1, 68. 

Harvard College, uniform of the schol- 
ars, 1, 56 ; Massachusetts Hall oo- 
cupied by Burgoyne's soldiers, 56 ; 
the Latin oration, 57 ; ** parts " for 
Exhibition or Commencement re- 
hearsed in the Gravel-pit, 57 ; the 
impressiveness of the President and 
Governor. 58; the wood fires of 
former days, 69; the Trienniid 
Catalogue, 82 ; President Kirkland, 
83; functions of the President in 
old times, 84; the college fire-en- 
gine, 88 ; the Med. Faon., 88 ; fight 
between the students and the sol- 
diers on training-day, 92; books 
{>resented by Sir K. Digby, 2, 67 ; 
ts influence on Boston, ISK); the 



education given in the last centnry, 
299 ; President Quiucy, 305 1, Quin- 
cy's History of, 307. 
Habyard College: address on the 
260th anniversary, Nov. 8, 1886, 6, 
137-180 ; the character and purpose 
of its founders, 140, 143, 147, 178 ; 
the feelings of her sons iu returning 
to their Alma Mater, 141 ; the strait- 
ness of its early means, 141 ; the 
founders commemorated in the 
words of tlie Preaclier, 141 ; the sig- 
nificance of the anniversary, 142; 
the founding of the College secured 
the intellectual independence of 
New England, 143; the circum- 
stances of its foundation, 143 ; the 
influence and character of the 
clergy, 144; the training of Indian 
youth one object, 147; the profes- 
sors underpaid and overworked, 
149 ; condition of the college in 
17th and 18th centuries, 149 ; the 
students safe from any contagion of 
learning at some former periods, 
150 ; the Gratulatio and the Whit- 
field controversy as indications of 
the state of learning, 151 ; the chief 
service of the College to hand down 
the tradition of Learning, 151 ; let- 
ters not neglected for mere scholar- 
ship, 152 ; influence of the College 
on the character of New England, 
153, 169 ; the new learning from 
Germany early welcomed here, 156 ; 
the conditions of American life not 
then favorable for the larger uni- 
versity life, 157 ; the recent expan- 
sion of the College toward filling 
University functions, 157, 107 ; the 
mottoes of the College, 157 ; the 
functions of a university and the 
aims of teaching. 158, 174, 176 ; the 
teaching of the Humanities to re- 
main predominant, 160, 177 ; the 
elective or voluntary system, 161, 
178 ; danger of pushing it too far in 
the present transitional condition of 
the College, 162; the administra- 
tion of President Eliot, 167 ; ad- 
vanced courses to be pushed on into 
the post-graduate period, 168; fel- 
lowships desirable foundations, 168 ; 
influence of the College on prepara- 
tory schools, 171 ; its dnty to pro- 
duce cultivated men, 171, 174, 177 ; 
its general purpose to train the fac- 
ulties for the duties rather than the 
business of life, 170; welcome to 
the guests present, 179. 
Commencement^ the dinner, 1, 2 ; 
the great Puritan holiday, 66 ; 6, 
154 ; Lewis, the brewer's handcart, 
1, 61 ; the two town constables at 
the meeting-house door, 64 ; respect 
paid the governor, 65 ; its sights and 

pleasures described, 79 ; old gradu* 
ates at, 82. 

Harvard Washington Corps, Pres. 
Kirkland's remark to, 1, 87 ; its 
vagaries, 88. 

Harvey, Gabriel, 4, 129, 155; intro- 
duced hexameters, 277 ; Nash on his 
hexameters, 278 n ; his self-absorp- 
tion, 285 n ; the finer passages in 
his prose, 285 n. 

Harvillier, Jeanne, her trial for witch- 
craft, 2, 380. 

Hastiness in writing, 3, 120 n. 

Hastings, Lord, Drydeu's verses on 
the death of, 3, 107. 

Hatem Tai's tent, 3, 225. 

Hathaway tried for witchcraft, 2. 

Hats, Prof. P.'s collection, 1, 93 ; ban- 
dit h»ts, 178. 

Haunted houses, Pliny's story of, 2, 
323. See of. so, Apparitions. 

Havelok, 3, 313. 

Hawkes, Henry, on the cities of Mex- 
ico, 1, 110. 

Hawkins, Sir John, account of the 
Canaries, 1, 110. 

Hawkins, Sir Richard, 2, 290. 

Hawkwood, Sir John, 3, 248. 

Hawthorne, the unwilling poet of the 
Puritanism of the past, 1, 365; a 
descendant of one of the Witch- 
craft judges, 2, 21 ; his intuitive ap- 
preciation of New England life, 51 ; 
his treatment of hereditary vices, 
125; the Marble Faun, 125; the 
character of Mr. Dimmesdale in 
the Scarlet Letter, 265 ; on England, 

3, 231 ; also, 223. 

Haydon, on the lofty purpose of Word** 
worth and Keats, 1, 225 ; on Keats's 
depression, 228 ; on his eyes, 241 ; 
quoted, 2, 196. 

Haying, in northern Maine, 1, 11 ; in 
the Seboomok meadows, 30. 

Haynes, John, on the dissolution of 
the Rump Parliament in 1G53, 2, 
34; on a catechism denying the di- 
vinity of Christ, 39. 

Hazlitt, W. C, his Early English 
Poetnj in the *' Library of Old Au- 
thors," 1, 254 ; edition of Webster, 
282 ; examples of blunders, 283 ; his 
edition of Lovelace, 304 ; his absurd 
emendations, 304; his notes, 309; 
his rash conceit, 319; his lack of 
taste and discrimination, 320 ; fur- 
ther instances of his incapacity, 
321 ; his insinuations against Wright 
and Warton, 329; his editorial 
method characterized, 347 ; his edi- 
tion of Herrick, 320 ; on Ritson*s 
editing, 331 ; on Spenser's allegory, 

4, 321 ; also, 85. 

Head-dress of Italian peasant womePt 
1, 171. 



Heathen, Dante on their state after 
death, 4, 248. 

Heathen divmities. See Pagan divm- 

Heather, its American substitute, 

Hebrew literature, 4, 234. 

Hector, 2, 104, 296. 

Hecuba, 2, 21. 

Heeren, Bancroft's translation of, 6, 

Heidegger, Dr., 2, 300. 

Heine, his airy humor, 2, 90; his 
style, 167 ; his want of inward pro- 
priety, 170 ; his cynicism, 229 ; 
turned the Gods of Greece to good 
account, 327 ; on the nature of wo- 
man, 3^; his profound pathos, 6, 
56 ; influenced by Spanish romances, 
116 ; the first English translation of, 
157; hated the Romans for invent- 
ing Latin grammar, 164; alsOj 1, 
364 ; 3, 259, 301. 

Helen of Kirconnel^ Wordsworth's 
version compared with the original, 
4, 403n. 

Helen of Troy, 1, 32. 

Helias, St., 2, 368 n. 

Hell, imi^ined as the reverse of 
Heaven, 2, 349 ; Dante's picture of, 
4, 175; Marlowe on, 175. 

Heminge and Condell, 3, 20. 

Henchmen, 1, 176. 

Henry IV. of France at Ivry, a Ro- 
man policeman compared to, 1, 216 ; 
compared with Lincoln in character 
and circumstances, 6, 190. 

Henry VII., Emperor, his expedition 
to Italy, 4, 133 ; his death, 134. 

Henry IX. of England, so-called, 2, 

Hens. See Fowls. 

Heraclitus, 1, 165. 

Herakles and Samson, 2, 134. 

Herbert, George, character of his 
poems, 1, 254 ; a/«o, 4« 21 n ; quoted, 

Herbert of Cherbury, Lord, on riding, 
4y ool. 

Herder, 2, 169, 219; his love-letters, 

Heredity, 3, 315 ; influence of, in great 
men, 4« 362 ; makes all men in a 
sense coeval, 6, 138. See dlso, An- 

Heresy, Selden on, 2, 216 ; Dante had 
no sympathy with, 4, 244. 

Heretics, Lessing on, 2, 199 ; the per- 
secution of, 374. 

Hermit, who became a king, a mediae- 
val apologue, 6, 1. 

Hermit instinct strong in New Eng- 
land, 1, 89. 

Hero, Carlyle's picture of, 2, 93 ; a 
makeshift of the past, 106 ; eagerly 
accepted by a nation, 6, ^. 

Herodias in legend, 2, 358. 

Herodotus, Plutarch on, 3, 231. 

Heroic treatment demanded for tri- 
fling occasions, 6, 198. 

Heroism the touch of nature that 
makes the whole world kin, 6, 42. 

Herrick, Hazlitt's edition of, 1, 320 ; 
also, 2, 223 ; 4, 369 ; — On Julia's 
Petticoat, 3, 124. 

Hertzberg, Wilh., Geoffrey Chaucer's 
Canterbury-Geschichten, 3, 291, 298. 

Hesperides, apples of, true poems 
compared to, 4, 266. 

Heylin, Dr., on French cooks, 3, 119. 

Hey wood's Foiir P. P. quoted, 1, 
337 ; his Woman killed with kind- 
ness quoted on the condition of pris- 
ons in old England, 159. 

Hibbins, Mr., 2, 27. 

Higginson, T. W., preacher and sol- 
dier, 2, 286. 

Highlanders. See Scotch Highlanders. 

Hildesheim, Bishop of, his demon- 
cook, 2, 366. 

Hill, Aaron, Pope's correspondence 
with, 4, 52. 

Hippocrene, 4, 89. 

Hippolytus. See Euripides. 

Hirschel lawsuit, Lessing employed as 
a translator in, 2, 187. 

Historians, Raleigh's warning to, 3, 
54; 4, 319n. 

Historic continuity, its effect on na- 
tional individuality, 6, 223. 

Historical composition, the value of 
anecdote and scandal in, 2, 284 ; the 
modern fashion of picturesque writ- 
ing, 4, 64 ; the value of contempo- 
rary memoirs, 65 ; 6, 241, 242 ; the 
so-called dignity of, often mere dul- 
ness, 4, 66; the Johnsonian swell 
of the last century, 67 ; importance 
of good taste in, 67 ; value of per- 
sonal testimony, 6, 118 ; distorted 
by bad logic and by the style of the 
writer, 120 ; truth of circumstance 
combined with error in character, 
121 ; the annalist's method, 121 ; the 
'^standard" histories, 121; the 
poet's view of, 123 ; the historical ro- 
mance, 123 ; the epic style, 123 ; the 
partisan method, 124 ; the forlorn- 
hope method, 124 ; the a priori fash- 
ion, 124 ; the ancient method, 277. 

Historical insight, 2, 111. 

Historical romance, 6, 123. 

History, its key to be found in Amer- 
ica, 1, 53 ; without the soil it grew 
in, its shortcomings, 113 ; cycles in 
the movement of, 191 ; 6, 126 ; its 
humors, 2, 22 ; the hero in, 74 ; Car- 
lyle's scheme of, 99 ; the place of 
popular opinion in, 99 ; events gain 
in greatness from the stage on which 
they occur, 275; its field generally 
limited, 278 ; made largely by igno- 



ble men, 4, 288 ; manipulation of, 
6, 97 ; contemporary evidence to be 
taken with caution, 119 ; no absolute 
dependence to be placed upon, 125 ; 
difficulty of forecasting events, 125 ; 
coincidences and parallelisms of his- 
tory, 126 ; the hand of Providence 
in, 127 ; man's part in the operations 
of the loom of time, 130; the 
changes in the moral and social con- 
ditions of nations, 131 ; historical 
characters compared with imagi- 
nary, 6, 81 ; the teaching of, 91 ; its 
periods short in comparison with ge- 
ological antiquity, 138 ; the study of, 
177 ; Burke's view of, 197 ; also, 4, 
258. See also, Antiquity ; Biogra- 
phy; Past. 

Hoar, Senator, 6, 204. 

Hobbes, 4, 80 ; Pope's Essay on Man 
distilled from his Leviathan, 36. 

Hodgson, Capt., 2, 7. 

Hogan Moganships, 1, 145. 

Hogarth, 3, 06 ; compared to Chaucer, 
354 ; compared with Fielding, 6, 62. 

Hogs, Gilbert White's observations on, 
3, 193. 

HohenzoUems, Carlyle's admiration 
for, 3, 247. 

Holbein, 3, 233. 

Holda, 2, 358. 

Holding up the hand, Mr. Hazlitt on, 
1 345. 

Holmes, Dr. O. W., 4, 61 ; 6, 48, 83; 
on physiological changes, 3, 224. 

Holt, Chief-Justice, belief in witch- 
craft, 2t 11* 

Holy Grail, legends of, 4, 231. 

Homekeeping youths, 1, 49 ; 6, 167. 

Homeliness of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 3, 

Homer, Keats should have translated 
him, 1, 289; Chapman's reverence 
for, 290 ; the different conceptions 
of his metre, 291 ; fond of asso- 
nances, 292 ; his verse compared to 
the long ridges of the sea, 292 ; his 
simplicity, 1^3; passage of Spenser 
suggested by, 4, 331 ; inferences as 
to contemporaiy manners unsafe, 
340 n ; his homieliness, 6, 242 ; his 
imaginative power, 6, 52; also, 2, 
150 ; 3, 25, 365 ; 6, 227. 
Dryden on, 3, 120 n. 
Chapman's translation. See Chap- 
man's Homer. 

Odyssey, 3, 310; 4, 414; the true 
type of the allegory, 321, 

Homeric translation. See Translation 
of Homer. 

Honesty, intellectual, 2, 198. 

Honor, sense of, Daveuant's line on, 3, 
139 n. 

Hood quoted, 6, 172. 

Hooke, William, 2, 44; letters on 
English affairs, 38, 48. 

Hooker, 4, 80. 

Hooks and eyes, the milleimiuni de- 
pendent on, 1, 362. 

Hope, Pope's lines on, 4, 41 . 

Hopkins, the witch-finder, 2, 364. 

Hopkins, Bishop, 6, 2^. 

Horace, sentiment of, 2, 252 ; a poet 
and a soldier, 286 ; Pres. Quincy^s 
fondness for, 299 ; Dryden's tran^a- 
tion of Ode iii. 2i9, 3, 114; the one 
original Roman poet, 305 ; Duiiel's 
amplification of Integer Yitae, 4^ 
282 ; also, 266. 

on hastiness in writing, 3, 120 n ; on 
winter, 265 ; on the punishment of 
crime, 6, 128. 

Horizon at sea, 1, 105. 

Horrible and Terrible, Aristotle's dl»- 
tinction between, 1, 280. 

Horse and Hattock, witch formula, 2, 

Horse in green spectacles, the public 
compared to, 4, 7. 

Horses, indication of senility in, 1, 
137 ; those who have to do with 
them the same everywhere, 146 ; in 
pagan mythology, 2, 348. 

Horseback riding at Tivoli, 1, 136. 

Horse-chestnuts in blossom, 1, 54. 

Hortop, Job, account of the Ber- 
mudas, 1, 110. 

Hospitality, of woodmen, 1,38; recip- 
rocal, 160 ; in earlier days, 2, 295. 

Hot weather, satisfaction of seeing 
the thermometer higher than ever 
before, 3, 196. 

Hotels, lack of comfort in American, 

1, 19 ; 2, 71 ; the touters of rival 
hotels, 6, 211. 

Houghton, Lord, on the parentage of 
Keats, 1, 219, 221 ; on the effect of 
the Quarterly article on KeatA, 228. 

House-moving in America, 1, 125. 

Howell, James, 6, 82 ; cured by Sir K. 
Digby, 2, 56. 

Howells, William D., 6, 82. 

Howes, Edward, his letters to J. Win- 
throp, Jr., on tdchemy and other 
mysteries, 2, 46; urges tolerance, 
49 ; on the true shape of Christ, 50 ; 
a true adept of the hermetic philos- 
ophy, 50. 

Howgall, Francis, 2, 64. 

Hroswitha, treated the legend of The- 
ophilus, 2, 329. 

Hubb, Herr, his so-called comic poem, 

2, IGl). 

Hue, Father, 3, 9. 

Hudson, the railway king, 6, 31. 

Huet, 1, 61. 

Hughes, Mr., on Spenser's measure, 4, 
329 n. 

Hughes, Thomas, 3. 243. 

Hugo, Victor, his idea of the poet*s 
function, 2, 157 ; the representative 
of sentimentalism, 268; on Shake- 



Bpearei 3. 63 ; his Marion Ddormcj 
6, 120 n. 

Human imperfection^ 2, 109. 

Human life, Dante on the course of, 
4, 213. 

Human mind, Dante on its double use, 

Human nature, the most entertaining 
a8x>ect of nature, 1, 114, and the 
most ironderful, 376; hard to find, 
but good company, 118 ; its ideal, 2, 
92; Carl^le's disdain of, 109; its 
modification by habit, 136 ; the at- 
tempts to make it over, 264 ; its 
sameness, 3, 231 ; the gratis-instinct, 
255; Dante on its double end, 4« 
220 ; as an elem^tnt in the making of 
history, 6, 126 ; the instinct that 
embodies and personifies abstract 
conceptions, 6, 104. See aUOt Life ; 
Man; Soul. 

Human reason, CarIyle*B contempt for, 

Human wit limited in qtiantity, 6, 35. 

Humanitarianism, 6, 23 n. 

Humbug, the English vocabulary in- 
complete without, 1, 196. 

Hume, David, 2, 225 n. 

Hume, the spiritualist, 2, 391 n. 

Humor, Yankee humor displayed in 
the Gomwallis, 1, 77 ; the German 
idea of its essence, 2, 90 ; without 
artistic sense degenerates into the 
grotesque, 90 ; its essential, 98 ; of 
a heavy man, 4, 66 ; essential to the 
composition of a sceptic, 160 ; sense 
of, 6, 7. 

of Shakespeare and other writers, 1, 
278 ; 6, 56 ; of Emerson, 1, 355 ; of 
Carlyle, 2, 88, 89, 98 ; of Cervantss, 
90 ; 6, 119, 129 ; of Heine, 2, 90 ; of 
Rabelais, 90 ; of Richter, 165 ; in- 
stances of, in Dante, 4, 208 n ; 
wanting in Spenser, 319; absence 
of the sense of, in Wordsworth, 6, 
110. See alsOy American, Englisli, 
French, (German humor. 

Humors, more common in old times, 1, 

Humors of character, preserved by an 
academic town, 1, 89. 

Humors of history, 2, 22. 

Humorist, the, never quite uncon- 
scious, 6, 56. 

Hunt, Gov., on the main object of the 
Constitutional party of 1860, 6, 27. 

Hunt, Leigh, 3, 354; his critical 
method, 332. 

on Keats's sensitiveness with regard 
to his family, 1, 220; on America, 
3, 247 ; on Spenser, 4, 329 n ; on 
Wordsworth's eyes, 394; on Field- 
ing, 6, 57. 

Huon of Bordeaux, 2, 295. 

Hurd, 2, 225. 

Hurry, of American life, 1, 7 ; of the 

present day, 58; characteristic of 

the Anglo-Saxon, 131. 
Hu;^ng-bee, 1, 186. 
Hutchinson, Mrs., reference to, in Edw. 

Howes's letter, 2* 50. 
Hypochondria, 2, 321. 

lago. See Shakespeare — Othello. 

Ice on the trees, 3, 279; Ambrose 
Philips's description of, 280. 

Iceland, Northmen in, 3, 320. 

Ideas, the world's stock limited, 2, 97. 

Ideal, the, in Emerson's lectures, 1, 
355 ; in Thoreau's writings, 379 ; in 
literature, difficulty of attaining, 4, 
281 ; needed as a basis for the real, 
6, 21 ; as real as the sensual, 81 ; 
the ideal and the real, 3, 66. 

Ideal life constantly put forward by 
Emerson, 1, 358. 

Ideal truth, art a seeking after, 1, 379. 

Identity, 3, 224. 

Ignorance, a certain satisfaction in, 1, 

Ilexes at Subiaco, 1, 183. 

Illumination, Chaucer's pictures of life 
compared to, 3, 325. 

Images, Dryden's use of, 3, 129; of 
Langland, 333. 

Imagination, the ftne eye of, needed by 
a traveller, 1, 46 ; driven out by the 
public school, 107 : wanting in mod- 
ern travellers, 110 ; faith in, pre- 
served by the Roman Churcli, 195 ; 
essential to enduring fame, 2, 79 ; 
not to be increased by study and 
reflection, 84 ; in a Scotchman, 107^ 
its action as a mythologizer, 318; 
its higher creative form, 3, 30 ; dis- 
tinguished from fantasy, 32 ; its laws 
to be most clearly deduced from 
Greek literature, 32; its secondary 
office as the interpreter of the poet's 
conceptions, 40 ; coramon-senne sub- 
limed, 270 ; Collins on, 4, 3 ; ig- 
nored by French criticism, 9 ; 
Wordsworth the apostle of, 27 ; at- 
tempts at, by an unimaginative man, 
66; must not be furnished with a 
yard-stick, 101 ; the life-giving power 
in poetry, 267 ; its office in litera- 
ture, 284; its full force found only 
in three cr four great poets, 6, 52 ; 
works of, have a usefulness higher 
in kind than others, 52 ; its uplift- 
ing and exhilarating effect on the 
moral and intellectual nature, 52; 
the bestower of originality and gen- 
ius, 53 ; in lower natures, com- 
bines with the understanding and 
works through observation, 5S ; its 
importance taught by Coleridge, 71 ; 
the world of, 81, 94 ; homeliness of, 
in popular tales, 85 ; applied to the 
domain of politics by Burke, 197. 
See cUsOt Fancy. 



itsqufility in Kn.itR, 1, 243; in Tho- 
reuu, 3(>l>; WunlMWortirs lack of, 2* 
78 : of B(irkt\ 81 ; of Hluikeiipeaiv, 
81 ; 3, ^A ; 4« W; ot (im-tlie, 2, 8r>; 
of Carlvlt>. IK). KH : of Drvilfn, 3, 
113; of Chaucer. :W1 ; of Mil tun. 4, 
in) ; of ])antt>, 'J-J-.i ; of 8i>eiuwT. 'A^\ : 
of Fieldiuf^, 6, TiT* ; of Coleridge, 72 ; 
mIiowu in CervauUM* cliaractera, 

Inuigiiiative oivationn, 6f l'<28. 

Iniii^inutive liter.itiire, iU place in a 
piihlic library. 6, IH. 

luiiiginative work, itH inner quality ac- 
cetwihle only to a heightened sense, 
6, 123. 

luuigiucs of the Romans, a substitute 
pruiKMed, 1, 317. 

Imitation, 1, 28U; pnxluces the arti- 
ficial, not the artJKtic, 2, 127 ; the 
faocinution of, 128 ; the ^ poets 
not Huweptiblu of, 3, 37. See also, 

IiiuiiiKratitMi, its dnngeni, 6i 205. 

Iniin(>rtality of fame, 3, 278. 

Iniola, Beuveuuto da. See Benye- 

Iniiwirtiulity impossible in time of civil 
war, 6, 131. 

Imperfection of human nature, 2, 109. 

Impracticable, the, always politically 
unwise, 6, 10(>. 

Imprecations of an Italian guide, 1, 

Impressions, their value, 3, 29. 

Impressment, 2, 301. 

Incarnation, Tlie, 4, 2.'>.'>. 

Incongruities of life, 1, Sfi. 

Inconsistency, Petrarch the perfection 
of, 2, 2ri3 ; of Dr>clen, 3, 123 ; a 
necepsary incident of political life, 
6, lOf.. 

Inconstancy, Webster*s lines on, 1, 

Indecision of character exemplified in 
Hnmlet, 3, 7(>. 

Independence, of Lessing, 2, 186 ; de- 
veloped in a democracy, 6, 31. 

Indkpexdent in Politics, Thr place 
OF the: addroHR Apr. 13, 1888, 6, 
190-221 ; defined, 194 ; bin office to 
denounce abuneg in political meth- 
o<lfl, 201 : needed to mo<lerate be- 
tween ])artief», 212 ; the reform of 
parties to be wroupht by, 213 ; de- 
nounced for advocating civil service 
refonn, 21. 'i. 

Indian Mutiny, 3, 238. 

Indian nomen<rlature, 1, 14. 

Indians, American, anecdote of one 
who preferred hanging to preach- 
ing, 1, 78 ; their capture advocated 
in order to exchange them for ne- 
groes, 2| 42 ; as servants in early 
New England, 43 ; royal and noble 
titles applied to, by the early set- 

tlers, C8; wniiaiiu*a oplnloo of 
them, (i9 ; he decliues to sell them 
coats and breeches, 00 ; become ro- 
mantic as they cease to be iangep> 
ous, 70 ; the legend of the werwolf 
found among, 3lK!; supiNMed to 
worsliip the Devil, 37G ; tlie Pnritaa 
couver»ion of, 3, 218 ; Pi^'s lines 
on^ 4, 40 ; iu Harrard GoUege, 6, 

Indignation, 3, 230. 

ludividualikiu of modem Utentare. 
2, IM. ^ 

Individualixation makea qrmfMithy 
more lively, 6, 2M2. 

Indirectness, its office in deecriptlTO 
writing, 3, 42. 

Inevitable, arguments with, 6. 17. 

Infallibility, 2, 22. 

Infernal hierarchy, 2, 327. 

Intiueni'e abiding after death, 2, 230. 

Ingenuous, our youth no longer so, 1, 

X X m^m 

Inhabitiveness, tlie author's, 1, 61. 

Injustice, 6, 2r>3. 

Inns, in Palestrina, 1, l.'iS ; in Olerano, 
173 ; cleanliness of Itslian inns duo 
to Englihh travellers, 199 ; of Cam- 
bridgeport, 70. See a/jro, T^vema. 

Inquisition of the 13th cent the begin- 
ning of systematic perae<»tioa for 
M itt'hcraf t, 2, 374. 

Inscriptions, Assyrian and otlien, 1, 
40 ; the mad desire to dedpher 
them, 318. 

Insiglit, 3, 301. 

Inspiration, 3, 62 ; 4, 386 ; bandy f<« 
a political speaker to have, 6. 191 ; 
more convenient than knowMdio. 

Instinct, Pope's lines (», 4, 37. 

Institutions too changeable to |iro> 
serve the memory of atateamen, 1, 

Intellectual ancestry, 1, 241. 

Intellectual dyspepsia of the tnoi* 
scendental movement, JL 362. 

Intellectual natures, 1, 229. 

Intensity in Wordsworth's highor 
moo<ls. 4, 405. 

Intensity of phrase affected by mod- 
em poets, 2, 82. 

Intolerance itself to be tolented, 8, 

Invention, 3, 300. 

Irelaml, AVx., Book-lorerU EtuMrU 
(lion, 6, 78. 

Ireland, in Kith century, 4, 286 ; In- 
dependen<>e of Eufifland not desired, 
6, 08; its economic condition in 
Artlnir Young's time, 228. 

Irislnnen, prejudice against, in tbo 
North, 6, 231 ; anecdote of an Iriah- 
man newly arrived in New York, 6^ 
25 ; on tlie worn-out farms of Miaeg 
chusetts,25; in America, 219 ; thofar 



fidelity and self-sacrifice toward Ire- 
land, 219. See also, Feniaus. 

Irish pride of ancestry, 2, 19. 

Iron, man's sympatliy for, 1, 115. 

Irony of Hamlet, 3, 83. 

Irrepressible conflict, the, 6, 32. 

Irresolution, the consequences of, dis- 
played in Hamlet, 3, 91. 

Irving, Edward, Carlyle on his singu- 
larities, 2, 107. 

Irving, Washington, divined and illus- 
trated the humorous side of early 
New England history, 2, 5 ; his 
Knickerbocker imitates CervanteSi 

Isaiali, 4, ICO ; 6, 113, 192. 

Islands In Moosehead Lake, 1, 26. 

Israelites and the Pilgrims compared 
as to infiuence on the future, 2, 1. 

Italian acting, 1, 175. 

Italian beggars. See Beggars, Italian. 

Italian dialects. Dante's work on, 4, 

Italian exiles drawn to Dante, 4, 1C9. 

Italian gardens, 1, 215. 

Italian liistory in relation to Dante, 

Italian inns, their cleanliness due to 
English travellers, 1, 199. 

Itnlian language, Dante's use of, 4, 

Italian literature, the Convito the first 
Italian prose, 4^ 155. 

Italian peasants, 1, 1 14, 163 ; reading 
of, 15G : in out of the way towns, 

Italian politics illustrated by the 
feeling at Tivoli against Rome, 1, 

Italian prima donna, her careless pity 
for her American audience, 3, 239. 

Italian prosody, elisions, 4, 107. 

Italian towns, individuality of, 1, 
213 ; rivalry of, 2, 278. 

Italian vetturini, 1, 14G. 

Italian women, 1, 144, 170 ; their un- 
sophisticated consciousness, 188. 

Italians, their lavishness of time, 1, 
131 ; their disputes, 1G5 ; on the 
mail-packet from Leghorn to Civita 
Yecchia, 108 ; pleasure in escaping 
a payment, 1G9 ; their feeling toward 
the Pope, 205 ; their way of doing 
nothing, 207 ; a vociferous people, 
213. See also, Romans. 

Italy, Leaves from mt Journal in, 
1, 100 - 217 ; reasons for visiting, 
123; its peculiar magnetic virtue, 
123 ; its special charm to Ameri- 
cans, 124 ; pleasures of living in, 
124 ; the sense of permanence, 125 ; 
compared to a beautiful woman, 
125; ancient and modem writers 
on, 125 ; guides, 134, 141 ; the ruins 
adopted by nature, 139 ; church-go- 
ing, 143 ; railroada, 150 ; reading, 

166; picturesquenesB of the inac- 
cessible mountain towns, 172 ; Roger 
Ascham's opinion of, 4. 26. 
Ivy, on the Villa of Hadrian, 1, 136 ; 
at Bubiaco, 183. 

J. P. = John Foster. 

J. H. = John Holmes. 

Jacie, Henry, letter on the destruction 
of Bores by tiie King of Sweden, 2, 

Jack, Col., 3, 203. 

Jackson, General, 1, 72 ; 6, 70. 

Jocobitibm compared to modem su- 
perstition, 2, 317. 

Jacob's ladders, climbers on, easily 
get a fall, 1, 142. 

Jamaica, 6, 319; the imagined negro 
plots in 1SC5, 2, 375; lessons of 
emancipation in, 6, 303. 

James I. of England convinced of the 
reality of witchcraft, 2, 352. 

James II. of England, 6, 321. 

Janus Bifrons, 1, 99. 

Jarley, Mrs., 4, 74. 

Jean Paul. See Richter. 

Jefferson, Thomas, 2, 75, 236; J. 
Quincy's reminiscences of, 294 ; de- 
vised the theory of strict construc- 
tion, 6, 148. 

Jehan d'Arras. MeluMne, 3, 361. 

Jehoiada-boxes, 1, 79, 167. 

Jellaladeen, a parable of, 6, 1^1. 

Jerome, St., believed in a limitation 
of God's providence, 1, 41. 

Jesuits, popular opinion of, in Italy, 
1, 144. 

Jews, their national egotism found 
sympathy in Puritan England, 4, 83 ; 
the prejudice against, 6, 18 ; sin- 
cerity of converted Jews tested, 213. 

Job, Book of, 3, 261. 

Jolm XXII., Pope, 4, 141. 

John, King of Saxony, on Dante's 
politics, 4, 150 ; on Dante's Cathol- 
icism, 153. 

John of Leyden, 3, 62. 

Johnson, Andrew, President, on the 
STUMP, 6, 264-282; his allusion to 
his own humble origin, 264 ; his 
speech on Feb. 22, 1866, 267 ; his 
loyalty, 267 ; his mistaken concep- 
tion of the President's ofBce, 267 ; 
his right to his own opinions, 272 ; 
should not appeal to the people 
against their representatives, 272 ; 
the meetings to "sustain" him, 
273 ; he assumes sectional ground, 
274 ; fictitious address to a South- 
em delegation, 277 ; the clown of 
the Philadelphia convention cir- 
cus, 285 ; relation to the principles 
of the Convention, 288 ; incidents 
of his speech-making tour, 289; 
Pontifex Maximus at the canoni- 
sation of 8. A. Douglaa, 292; hia 



appearance aa a mountebankf 286, 
290, '294, 296 ; the anaavory memory 
of his career, 297 ; his arf^ments 
on the questious of reconstruction, 
297 ; threatens the forcible suppres- 
sion of the Congress, 301 ; his pol- 
icy, 30G ; his agrarian proclamation, 
30G; hailed by the South as a 
scourge of Ood, 308; his foolisli 
policy awakens the people to the 
gravity of the situation, 313; his 
misconceptions and delusions, 313 ; 
his policy compared to that of 
James II., 321 ; his earlier attitude : 
toward the South, 323; impeach- 
ment deprecated, 320. 

Johnson, Reverdy, 6, 289 ; on the re- 
lations of England and America in 
18C9, 3, 252. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, his verse, 1, 
24C ; dined heartily for threepence, : 

2, 184 ; poverty of, 187 ; compared 
with Lessing in learning and critical 
powpr, 191, 229 ; his critical power, 
3, 140 n ; his Lf/e of Dryden^ 140 n ; 
theory of genius, 140 ; epigram from 
Spenser, 4, 290 n ; his views of 
America compared with Burke's, 
6, 197 ; also, 3, 101, 125, 201, 316, 
3G3 ; 4, 303 ; 6, 90. 

on love, 2, 208 ; on Rousseau, 235 ; on 
Shakespeare, 3* 19 ; on Milton's Ly- 
cidaSylXQ ; on Dryden, 140 ; on Pope, ' 
4, 54 ; on his Essay ov Man, 38 ; on 
his sincerity, 49 ; on Burke, 6, 71. 

JoinviUe, 2, 274. 

Juke, Francis Sales' way of taking 
everything, 1, 97 ; tlie Chief Mate's 
appreciation of, 110, 117. 

Jones, Paul, picture of his fight in the 
Bouhomme Richard in the Cam- 
bridge barber's shop, 1, 62. 

Jongleurs, 3, 361. 

Jousou, Ben, characterized, 1, 277 ; 
heavy without grandeur, 279; his 
critical power no help to liim as a 
dramatist, 2, 222 ; his lyrics, 223 ; 
his dramas compared with Shake- 
speare's, 3, 58 ; Dryden on, 143, 185 
n ; his verse, 340 ; his debt to Spen- 
ser, 4, 30C n ; also, 2, 286 ; 3, 101 ; 
4, 300, 343. 

on Bacon, 1, 300 ; 3, 10 ; onMarston's 
neologisms, 8 ; on Shakespeare, 10 n, 
10 ; on tlie declhie of eloquence, 10 ; 
on rhymesterp, 150 ; on Spenser's 
cliildren, 4, 290 n ; on his allegory in 
the Faery Queen, 314 ; on Guarini's 
language, 301 n ; on Donne, 6, 113. 

Jourdain de Blaivies, passage quoted, 

3, 311. 

JouBNAL IK Italy and elsewhere. 

Leaves from, 1, 100-217. 
Journalism, 4, 375 ; 6, 8. See also. 

r^ian, Don, 1, 107. 

Jubinal, AchQle, 3, 264. 

Judaea, its place in the world of 
thought, 6, 174. 

Judas, the apostle, 6, 120. 

Judd, Sylvester, his margaret, Z, 274. 

Judges chosen by election in some 
states, 6, 30. 

Judgments, divine, made to work both 
ways, 2, 66. 

Judgments, human, Shakespeare on, 
3, 152 ; a man judged by hia little 
faults, 1, 85. 

Junius, Dr. Waterhou8e*8obflervationa 
upon, 1, 96. 

Justice, in the soul and in action, dis- 
tinguished by Rousseau, 2, 249; 
sense of, 117 ; more merciful than 
pity In the long run, 4, 251. 

K. ■=. Pres. Kirkland. 

Kalewala, 2, 152, 319. 

Kannegiesser, translation of Dante, 4i 

Kansas, 6, 39. 

Kant, on the accumulating records of 
history, 6, 142. 

Katahdin, Mt., seen from Hooaehead, 

Kay, Sir, 2, 154. 

Keane, Counsellor, his pig, 2, 275. 

Kearney, Commodore, 6, 62. 

Keats, John, 1, 218-246 ; his parents, 
219 ; his love for his mother, 221 ; 
education, 221 ; his school-fellows* 
opinion of him, 222 ; Mrs. Orafty's 
reminiscences of, 223 n ; apprenticed 
to a surgeon, 223; reads Spenser, 
223; his sympathy for Chatterton, 
224 ; his other reading and first pub- 
lication, 224 ; Endymion (1818) and 
the abuse it received, 225 ; his case 
compared with Milton's, 226; hia 
ambition to be a great poet, 225, 
227 ; his siiffering from the vulgar- 
ities of the reviews, 226 ; his name 
unfortunate, 227 ; the effect of the 
fortunes of his book on him, 228 ; 
in Haydon's painting room, 228; 
the moral and physical man per- 
fectly interfused, 229 ; his own opin- 
ion of Endymion, 230 ; on his own 
method of work, 231 ; his character 
and manner of working compared 
with Wordsworth's, 231 ; first symp- 
toms of his hereditary disease, 232 ; 
his passion for a woman, 233; hia 
own description of his passion, 233 ; 
his betrothal, 235; his work from 
1818 to 1820, 235 ; the first hemor- 
rhage and the journey to Italy, 236 ; 
letters quoted expressing his de- 
spair at the separation from Miss 

, 230, 238 ; at Rome, 238 ; the 

end, 239; his grave, 240; his per- 
sonal appearance, 240 ; criticism of 
his poetry, 241 ; auperabondant iu 



language, 241 ; originality, 241 ; com- 
pared with Wordsworth and By- 
ron, 242 ; his poetic imagination, 
243 ; an example of the Renais- 
sance, 244 ; power of assimilation, 

244 ; self-denial in use of language, 
244 ; power of poetic expression, 
245; his poems a reaction against 
the barrel-organ style of poetry, 

245 ; the greatness and purity of his 
poetic gift, 24C ; should have trans- 
lated Homer, 289 ; learned to ver- 
sify from Chapman, 29C ; denunci- 
ation of 18tli century style, 3, 98 ; 
studied Dryden's versification, 99 n ; 
his style compared with Milton's, 
4:, 8G ; Spenser's influence upon, 352 ; 
alsoj 3, 32G. 

on the imagination, 1, 243 ; on Chap- 
man's Homer, 4, 294 ; on continu- 
ations of an ancient story by great 
poets, 312 ; on a line of Shake- 
speare's, 409 n. 
Endymim, 1, 225, 230, 244 ; 3, 354 ; 
— Hyperion, 1, 235, 1M4 ; — Lamia, 
235, 244 ; — Lyi ical Ballads, 22G ; — 
Odes, 244 ; — Ode to a Grecian Urn, 
4, 371 n ; — Sonnets, 1, 244. 

Kemble, John, in Macbeth, 3, 70. 

Kent, men of, their tails, 1, 112. 

Kepler, 3, IG. 

Ketch, Jack, 3, 17G. 

Kidd, Capt., 6, 119. 

Kineo, Mauie, 1, 18. 

Kineo, Mount, 1, 13 ; ascent of, 39. 

Kings, Browning's picture of a king, 
2, 109 ; 6, 27 ; their Sacred Majesty 
ridiculed by the Dutch, 3, 234. 

Kirke, Edmund, probably the same as 
Spenser, 4, 301 n. 

Kirkland, President, his character, 1, 
83 ; his appearance, 84 ; unsuited to 
his time, 85 ; anecdotes of him, 8G ; 
his manner of praying, 88. 

Kleist, Lessing on, 2, 173; Lessing's 
friendship with, 197. 

Klopstock, 2, 219 ; Lessing on, 176 ; 
Wordsworth's interview with, 4, 
on the German Muse, 2, 183. 

Klotz, Leading's criticism of, 2, 200. 

Knebel, his judgment of Frederick 
the Great, 2, 113. 

Knight of Courtesy, Hazlitt's and Rit- 
son's editions of, 1, 331. 

Knights of Labor, 6, 183. 

Knives, the Chief Mate's appreciation 
of, 1, 114. 

Knowleiige, elements of, 1, 48 ; that 
which comes of sjnnpathy, 3, 49. 

Knowledge and learning, 2, 18G. 

Know-Nothings, B, 318. 

Knox, John, 2, 2G5. 

Kobes I., Emperor, his speeches com- 
pared to Pres. Johnson's, 6, 289. 

Kouig, Eva, Lessing's wife, 2, 207. 

L. S. = Leslie Stephen. 

Labor, cheap, importation of, 6^ 217. 

Labor-saving contrivances, 2, 279. 

La Bruy^re on witchcraft, 2, 387. 

La Chevrette, Hermitage of, 1, 375. 

La Fontaine, 2, 200. 

Lager-beer and brandy, the Dutch- 
man's distinction, 1, 127. 

Laing, editor of Dunbar's works, 4, 

Lake, its uncanny noises on a freezing 
niglit, 3, 290. 

Lamartine, 2, 236^GG. 271 ; 3, 262 ; 
resents the subsidy granted him by 
the Senate, 2, 258; autumn com- 
pared to, 3, 259. 

Lamb, Charles, his criticism of the 
English dramatists, 3, 29; his de- 
fence of the comedy of the Restora- 
tion, 150 ; Wordswortli's friendsliip 
with, 4, 38G ; also, 1, 249, 261 ; 3, 
280 ; B, 133. 

on Webster, 1, 280 ; on Spenser, 4, 
32G ; on Wordsworth, 390. 
his Essays of Elia, 6, 82. 

Lamb, Charles and Mary. 4, 363 n. 

Lamennais on Dante, 4, 1G3. 

La Motte Fouqu6. , See Fouqu^. 

Lamps, alchemists'. Pope's teaching in 
tlie Essay on Man compared to, 

Lance-rests, 1, 328. 

Land, Henry George's theories of, 6, 

Land companies. See American land 

Land speculations, Rufus Davenport's, 
in Cambridgeport, 1, 71. 

Landino, comment on Dante, 4, 156. 

Laudor, Walter Savage, 2, 123; his 
Gehirus Rex, 129 ; his pseudo-clas- 
sicism, 135 ; his style compared with 
Milton's, 4, 86 ; his blank-verse, 399. 
on great men, 3, 104 ; on mingling 
prose with poetry, 144 ; on Spenser, 
4, 352 ; on Wordsworth, 401 ; on 
Napoleon III., 6, 125 ; on Coleridge's 
criticism of Don Quixote, 6, 126. 

Landscape, described by Chaucer, 3, 
261, 357 ; value of human associations 
in, 6, 139. See also, Nature ; Scen- 
ery ; Views. 

Landscape-gardeners of literature, 3. 

Langland, .3, 324; compared with 
Chaucer, 330 ; his verse, 332 ; charm 
of his language, 335. 
Piers Ploughman, reprinted in the 
" Library of Old Authors," 1, 252; 
its language, 3, 11 ; as an example 
of popular poetry, 334; cited, 1, 
326 ; 2, 328. 

Language, growth of, 1, 373 ; 3. 328 ; 
power of, 1, 245 ; must catch its fire 
from the thought behind it, 2, 122 ; 
its purity dependent on veracity of 



thoufrhtf 270; value of its liTinff 
quality, 3, : meaning of a ** living " 
laiiffuafie, 0; intiuiato relntiuus of 
laiiguafir ami thought, G ; itM subtle 
rclatiuim witli vprne, 13 ; made claa- 
sio by great ]NH'try, IT ; its office iu 
poetry highi-r than iu prose, 40; 
pluyiuguiMin wonls characteristic of 
some |HiMiii)iiis 5*2 ; Reium on tlie 
deveIo|nuent of, 184 u ; life maybe 
breatlied into, by a great poet, 307 ; 
comiMred to tlie soil, 312; what a 
man of geniiu%iay do for it, 328 ; 
of rusticis 341 ; reformed by precept 
rather tlian by example, 4, 21 ; Bel- 
lay on innovations in, 347 : when ar- 
chaisms are permissible, 347 ; value 
of the study of, 6, *•X^\ literature 
not to be sacrificed to, in teaching, 
152 ; the teaching of, 104. See also. 
Accent ; Apostrophe ; Apsonance ; 
Spelling ; WunlM and expressions. 

Languages, foreign, power of acqidr- 
ing, 2, 101. 

Langue d'oil. its advantages over the 
Proven^'al, 3, 312. 

Lnpliiud night, tlie genius of Wasliing- 
ton AlUton roni|»nro<l to, 1, 77. 

LtirkH. JS*'f utit/rr Birds. 

LaBM>1 cited on the meaning of fltUes^ 
1, 310. 

Lassels, Richard, on Italy, 1, 126. 

Last looks, 1, 1 49. 

Latiu, its uhc by Chaucer's cock, 2, 1^2. 

Latin elements in Knglish, 1, 2(tl ; 
3f 12 ; more familiar than the Teu- 
tonic, 14 n. 

Latin literature, 3, 305; the later 
poets, 3(H). See also^ ClasAics. 

Latin quotations sure to be ap- 
plauded, 1, 57. 

Latin verpe-compof-ition, 2, 120. 

Latini, Brunetto, 1, 315 ; 3, 309 n; 4, 
208 ; Dante's tutor, 123. 

Laud, ArchbiHhop, 2, 29. 

Laughter, of President Felton, 1, C7 ; 
of the Snow brothers, G8 ; of Francis 
BaloB. 97 ; that of X, the Chief Mate 
de8oril)ed, 117. 

Laura, 3, 302. 

Laurels of the Villa d' Este, 1, 1^2. 

Law as a training for politics, 5, 193. 

Lnws, Spinoza on the strengtli of, 6, 

Laws of nature personified and wor- 
shipped of old, 1, 137. 

Lead, proper for " Essoys," 6, 99. 

Leaders not provided for every petty 
occasion, 2, 110. 

Leaders who do not lead, 6, 220. 

Lear, 1, 281. 

Learning, Leasing on its uses, 2, 190 ; of 
Johnson and Lessing compared, 191 ; 
suspected of sorcery in the Middle 
Ages, 332 ; made more accessible by 
short cuts to information, 6, 84 ; 

I fffM, 4, IflO. See alto^ Kdnoittaa ; 
I Knowledge ; Pedantry ; BcboknUpw 
. Learning and wiadonijJDanto diati^ 
guislies between, 4, 200. 

Leaven, 4, 72. 

Lea VIS raoM mr Jouutal or Italy 

AMD ELSCWmCHB, 1, 100-217. 

Leiky, W. E. H., on witchcraft, S, 377 
! n ; on Peter of Abaoo, 8B1 n ; on 
i Wierus, 382. 

Leclerc, Victor, 3, 296; on I>ute,4b 

Lecturers, 3, 256. 
I Lecturing, 1, 349. 

Lee, Joint-author with DrTdoii of 
(Etiiput, 3. 128. 
! Legends, their growth and their flite, 
2, 359 ; of saints and martyrs, 4^ 290. 

LegisUtion -must be based on the im- 
I derstanding and not on the centi- 
meut, 6, IW. 

Leisure, needed in travelling, 1,122; 
of the beggar aristocracnr, 3, V^K. 

Leisure class, a bane if it have not a 
definite object, 6, 220. 

Lenz, 2, 207 n. 

Leo. VII., Pope, believes the atory of 
the actor changed into an aaa, 2. 

Leonardo, Aretino, on the date of 
I)ante's birth, 4, ?.22 ; on the death 
of Dant"'s father, 123. 

Leoiwldo, guide in HvoU, 1, 130 ; Ua 
early education, 142. 

Lepidus, his account of the erooodlle. 
2, 52. 

Le Sage, 3,68; GilBlat^B,e^ 

Leskiko, G. E., 2, 1G2*SS1 ; Ids fame 
survives the aRsault of four Ghttman 
biographers, 163; his great qnaU- 
ties, 171 ; the defence of Truth at 
ways his object in wxitiiig, 174 ; hla 
intellectual ancestry, 176 ; ohano* 
terized by force rather than cleTev> 
nesF, 176 ; the sources of his inapt* 
ration, 177 ; hia ancestry, 180 ; ma 
relation to his father, Iffl ; his eeriy 
education, 182 ; at Leipilg, 183; m 
Wittenberg and Ber^i, 184; his 
Anacreontics and sermons at honia» 
184 ; his letters home, 186 ; his Mrfcr 
scepticism, 185; his cheeifal aeut 
confidence, 185 ; his independenoei 
186; arranges Rttdiger*8 libnury» 
186 ; his early range at scholanih^ 
186 ; his life pure, 187 ; his poverty, 
187 ; his relations with Voltaire fai 
the Hirschel lawsuit, 187 ; at Wit- 
tenberg in 1752, 189; his father's 
efforts to put him into a profwion, 
189 ; his mind always grovdng and 
forming, 189 ; compared with J(An- 
snn in lenming and critical power, 
191 ; in Berlin at literary work from 
1752 to 1760, 191; Us eheeitlil, 
manly nature, 192 ; diown hgr «■> 



tracts from his letters, 192; com- 
pelled to literary drudgery at times, 
193 ; his attitude toward it, 194 ; his 
opinion of dramatic writing, 195 ; 
defends his neglecting poetry for 
philosophy, 196 ; the training of his 
critical powers, 19G; the firmness 
and justice of his criticisms, 197 ; 
his friends in Berlin, 197 ; his rest- 
lessness there, 198 ; his passion for 
truth, 198 ; his friends' lack of ap- 
preciation of his position, 199 ; re- 
moves to Breslau in 17G0, 202; a 
member of the Acad, of Sciences of 
Berlin, 202 ; his feeling toward the 
Seven Years' war, 203 ; liis patriotism 
shown in the warfare against French 
taste, 204 ; his life in Breslau, 204 ; 
refuses to bind himself to an official 
career, 205 ; returns to Berlin, 205 ; 
becomes theatrical manager at 
Hamburg, 20G; appointed librarian 
of the Duke of Brunswick, 207, 
210 ; his betrothal, 207 ; letter from 
Boie relating to, ^7 ; his wife and 
their love-letters, 208; her death 
and Lessing's sorrow, 208 ; his life 
at Wolfenbuttel, 211 ; troubled with 
hypochondria, his cure for it, 212 ; 
his controversial writings, 212 ; his 
craving for sympathy in his later 
years, 213 ; his last letter to Men- 
delssohn, 213 ; his attitude toward 
theology, 214 ; alike indifferent to 
clerisy and heresy, 217; condition 
of contemporary German litera- 
ture, 217 ; his debt to French liter- 
ature, 221 ; his influence on Euro- 
Eean literature, 222 ; the source of 
is critical power, 224 ; the quality 
of his genius, 224 ; his power of 
dramatic construction, 225 ; a great 

grose writer, but not a poet, 220 ; 
is minor poems, 227 ; his contin- 
uous growth, 227; the life-giving 
quality of his thought, 228 ; his su- 
preme value as a nobly original 
man, 229 ; his value to German lit- 
erature, 229 ; a seeker after Truth, 
230; Coleridge's debt to, 6, 71; 
also, 1, 304 ; 3, 179. 
on Kleist, 2, 173 ; on the critic, 174 ; on 
his own failures, 174; onGottsched, 
175 ; on Klopstock, 176 ; on Voltaire, 
188; on his own education, 190; on 
the use of learning, 190 ; on differ- 
ent ways of earning one's living, 
194 ; on his hack-work, 194 ; on the 
value of character, 195 ; on the cul- 
tivation of poetry, 196 ; on Thom- 
son, 196 ; on Smollett's Roderick 
Random, 197 ; on heretics, 199 ; on 
the "whole truth," 199; on his 
criticism of Klotz, 200 ; on his 
wife's death, 209 ; on bearing grief, 
210; ou orthodoxy and sectarian- 

ism, 215 ; on his debt to Diderot, 
224 n ; on his Dramaturgies 228 ; on 
seeking after truth, 230 ; on Shake- 
speare, 3| 67; on French drama, 
162 ; on Pope, 4, 56. 
Macaulay on, 2, 173 ; Goethe on, 225 
n, 231. 
Anti-G'dtze pamphlets^ 2, 173, 213; — 
Contributions to the History and 
Reform of the r/ica<r«, 176, 194; — 
Dramaturgie, 206, 221, 228; — 
BmiUa Galotti, 213, 224, 226; — 
Fables, Grimm on, 197 ; Laocoon^ 
195,204, 2^2.%', — Ije.tters on Litera^ 
ture, 172, 196, 197, 221 : — Li/lo^ 
177 ; — Minna von Barnhelm, 204, 
224, 225 n ; — Miss Sara Sampson^ 
m-, — Nathan the Wise, 213, 225 
n, 226, 227 ; — Young Scholar, 183. 

Lessing, Stahr's Life of, a panegyric 
rather than a biography, 2, 172 ; 
furnishes little material for a com- 
parative estimate, 173 ; its faults and 
shortcomings, 176; its excellences, 
178 ; Evans's translation, 178, exam- 
ples of mistranslation, etc., 179; 
further references to Stahr's work 
or opinions, 175, 188, 189, 202, 203, 
204, 206, 210, 211, 214, 217, 221, 222, 

Letcher, Gov., 6, 83. 

Letters, 4, 50 ; misdirected, men com- 
pared to, 3, 226. 

Le Verrier, discovery of Neptune, 6, 

Levity, 4, 317 n. 

Lewis, the brewer in Cambridge, 1, 
60 ; on Commencement days, 80. 

Lexington, 1, 191 ; 3, 223. 

Lexington, battle of, reminiscences of 
survivors of, 5, 119. 

Leyden, John of, 2, 10. 

Liberal education, why so called, 3, 32. 

Liberal studies, 6, 160, 177. 

Liberty, Puritan ideas of, 2, 10, 75 ; 
Dante on, 4, 244 ; its principles can- 
not be sectional, 6, 37. See also, 

Librarians, modem, contrasted with 
earlier, 6. 83. 

Library of old authors. Review of, 
1, 247-348 ; the authors reprinted, 
251 ; the editing, 255,; general lack 
of accuracy, 260. 

Libraries, 3, 248. 

Libraribs, Books and; address at 
Chelsea, Dec. 22, 1885, 6, 78-98. 

Libraries, public, their office to 
spread tlie pleasures of scholarship 
and literature, 6, 80 ; an instrument 
of the higher education, 83 ; modem 
improvements in the administration 
of, 83 ; the books which should be 
found in, 90; their contribution to 
the welfare of the state, 97; at 
monuments of their donors, 98. 



Lichen, yenow, on atone waUs, 1, 

Liohtenberv. on ancient literature, 3, 
36 : on Garrick in ILuulet, i&. 

Licton, educational, 1, '^. 

Lieberkuhn, liis theory ox traaalation, 

life, it* eaaential underljinir facts 
alone nuike character, 1, *21S; de- 
manded by the tranacendeutU re- 
f onners, 3^ : as the subject of po- 
etry, 2, 1 "lU : its dual nature, 'XI : the 
sentimentalist's Tiew of, 'XI : Dry- 
den's line on, 3, 167 : continually 
weighing us, '230 ; Chaucer's and 
Dante's views of. 3:23 ; the voyage 
of, 4, '237. Set aUOf Human nature ; 

Liffert. k, '207 n. 

Lights in the windows, 3, 221, 288. 

Lighthouse compared to Carlyle's 
teaching. 2, U>9. 

Lillo's Gforge Bnmvtllf Leaaing in- 
fluenced by. 2, 1 • < . 

Lilly, his dramatic works reprinted in 
the " Library of Old Authors," 1, 
2M ; also, 4, & 

Limbo of Daute. 4, *24€t. 

Limiters, Chaucer's satire on. 3, 334. 

LncoLS, ABSAHAn, 6, 1»*-'2C>9: his 
Americanism. 2, 260: 6, 192: his 
reply when Gen. Grant was accused 
of drinking too much, 3, H9 n ; his 
reception of the Marquis of Harting- 
ton, 242 n ; his adminiBtTation sure 
to be conservative, 6, 42 ; his char- 
acter and experience, 43: his in- 
augural in 18(>1, 81 : his reply to 
McClellan'a charge of lack of sup- 

C»rt, 112 ; his policy compared with 
cCleUan's, 164: his moderation 
and considerate wisdom. 172: com- 
pared with Cromwell. 173 : his wary 
scrupulousness followed by decided 
action, 173, 1S8 ; the qualities which 
make him a great statesman and 
ruler, 1S3: the peculiar difficulties 
of his task. 1S4. 1S7: his policy 
tentative to begin with, 1S8 ; knows 
how to eeize the occauon when it 
comes, 188: has kept his rather 
shaky raft in the main current. 1^9 : 
in character and circumstances con^ 
pared with Henry IV. of France. 
190 : no apostasy or motives of per- 
aonal interest to be charged ^rsinst 
him. llU : contemptuously compared 
to Sancho Panza, 191 ; his personal 
appearance. 19*2 ; his previous tr.kiu- 
ing and experience. 193 : hi« debate 
with Douglas, 19i: Lis policy to 
aim at the best, and take the next 
best. 194 : his want of self-conii- 
dence and slow but steady advance, 
195 : his tenderness of nature with- 
oat sentimentaliam, 1S6 ; his role to 

be guided by events eten at fhe 
cost of delay, 19&, 2li5: his attitode 
toward slavery. 197 : his policy Id 
emancipation dictated br prudeace, 
198 ; his original pc^cy m rMard to 
the war, 202 : the tone of familiar di«* 
nity in his public ntterancce, 206 ; hfa 
confidence in the richt-mindedneas 
of his fellow-men, 206 ; hischaractw 
appeals even to the most degraded, 
2U7 : his policy that of pnblie opin- 
ion based oo adequate dirn iri nn , 
207 : absence of egotism, 207 ; the 
representative American. 208; the 
most absolute ruler in Christendom 
on the day of his death, 206; the 
feeling called out by his death, 300, 
214: his power rested on honest 
manliness, 209; reluctant to OTe»> 
step the limits of precedent, 260; 
always waited for his supines to be 
on hand, 271 : his definition ot de- 
mocracy. 6, 20 ; popular homage of, 
32 : a trufy great man, 209 ; alio, 5, 

Linguisters, 3, 337. 

Lintot, the bookseller, 4, 53. 

Literary fame. See Fame, literary. 

Literary history, the mere naates of, 

Literary popularity. See Popolaiity, 

Literary'aense of Chancer, 3, 331. 

Literary simplicity, 2, 82. 

Literary vanity, 1, 315. 

Literature, absorbed uncooackmaly^ 1, 
113 : its staminate flowers, 306 ; mi- 
mediate popularity and lasting fame 
contrasted and discussed, 2, 78; 
importance of naturalness, 83; its 
higher kinds dependent oo the char- 
acter of the people and age, 132 ; the 
favorable conditimis for, 148, 153; 
its present tendency to kiee ni^ooal 
characteristics. 152 : its drudgery aa 
a profession, 193; the periwig and 
the tie-wig style, 218 ; the vitality 
of true literature, 3, 33 ; its idols 
become compani<Has as one grows 
^der. 56: distinguished from rhet- 
oric, 301 : Bynm's opinion in regard 
to execution, 4, 4Sl ; the hen^ age 
of the folio past, 61 ; the distinction 
of Form and Tendency, 1G5 ; the 
Christian idea contrasted with the 
Pdgan, 234; value of character in, 
2i>l : the quality of natiouOity in, 
*270: 6, 115; difllculty of att:iiiiii« 
the ideal. 4, 281 ; the everiastfay 
realities in, 2S4 ; source of ita vigor, 
293 : of the 15ch centurr, 2G6 ; is ita 
importance overvalued? 6, K; the 
office of creative genius in, 54 ; the 
difference between realistic and typi- 
cal character^ 56 ; its beidgnitiea, 
80: the conditiooa of 



fa, 107 ; the four oosmopolitan au- 
thors since Virgil, 108 ; the German 
word dichtung, 117; the deeper 

?ualities of books not accidental, 
23 ; characters drawn by observa- 
tion and those created by the imag- 
ination, 127 ; the pedigrees of books, 
136; not to be sacrificed in the 
teaching of language, 152 ; the place 
of Plato and Aristotle in, 166 ; de- 
pendent on a national consciousness 
and a sense of historic continuity, 
223 ; necessary to a nation's equip- 
ment, 224 ; the products of isolation 
in, 225 ; its place in the general esti- 
mation, 226 ; an index of civiliza- 
tion, 226 ; its influence on the course 
of history, 227 ; the record of a na- 
tion's life, 228. See also, American, 
English, European, French, Ger- 
man, Greek, Italian, Latin, Modern, 
and Spanish literature ; — also. Alle- 
gory ; Classics ; Drama ; Fables ; 
Fabliaus ; Fairy tales ; Fiction ; His- 
torical composition ; Imagination ; 
Poetry ; Provincialism ; Satire ; 

Littleton, case of pretended possession 
in, in 1720, 2, 391. 

Lobster, Doctor, and the perch : fable 
in verse, 1, 22. 

Lochinvar, 2, 152. 

Loggers of Maine, 1, 15. 

Logging on a frosty morning, 1, 18. 

Lombard churches, 1, 205. 

London, 1, 191. 

London smoke, 3, 287. 

Loneliness of the Ponte Sant' Antonio 
near Tivoli, 1, 140. See also^ Soli- 

Longevity, 2, 309; competition in, 
among college graduates, 1, 82 ; its 
usual character, 2, 291. 

Longfellow, his Hiawatha, 2, 132 ; — 
Epimetheux, 3, 125 n ; his lectures 
on Dante, 4, 147 ; translation of the 
Divine Comedy, 147, 193 n; — 
Wreck of the Hespenu^ 272. 

lionging, 1, 189. 

Longinus 1, 173 ; references to, in me- 
diffivid literature. 325. 

Loom of time, man's share in its oper- 
ations, 6. 130. 

Lord of Misrule, procession of, Oar- 
lyle's view of life, 2, 98. 

Lord's prayer, test whether % witch 
could repeat it, 2, 341. 

Lorens, Mdlle., tiessing's passion for, 
2, 184, 187. 

Loudon, Masson's reference to, 4, 73. 

Loud tin, the witchcraft troubles at, 
2, 371. 

Louis, St., of France, 2, 274. 

liouis XIV. of France, his influenee on 
French literature, 4, 293 n ; Thack- 
eray's picture of, 6, 121. 

Louis XYI. of France, mourning for, 

Louis Napoleon, 6, 31. 

Louis Philippe, 6, 127. 

Louisiana, her proposal to secede ab- 
surd, 6y 48. 

Louisiana purchase, J. Quincy's oppo- 
sition to, 2, 302. 

Loupgarou, 2, 359, 362. 

Lovat, Simon, Lord, 3. 71. 

Love, Keats's description of his own 
state, 1, 233 ; Webster's and But- 
ler's lines on, 282; Dryden's lines 
on, 3, 167 ; Dante's conception of, 
4, 210 ; Spenser's lines on, 291 ; his 
idea of, 316. 

Love v^f country, 2, 112 ; 6, 177. See 
also, Patriotism. 

Love at first sight, 2, 299. 

Lovelace, reprinted in the "Library 
of Old Authors," 1, 255, 303 ; his 
three short poems wl^ich deserve to 
live, 302 ; the rest of his work worth- 
less, 303; compared with Prynne, 

Love-letters of Lessing and Eva 
Konig, 2, 208. 

Lowell, Charles Russell, moose-bunt- 
ing, 1, 37. 

Loyalty, to natural leaders, 2, 110 ; 
the sentiment developed into a con- 
viction by the War, 6, 213. See alsOf 

Lucian, on apparitions, 2, 322 n ; story 
of the stick turned water-carrier, 

Luck, its share in ephemeral success, 

Lucky authors, 1, 302. 

Lucretius, 6, 112 ; on the sea, 1, 100; 
his invocation of Venus, 3, 306; 
quoted, 4, 257 n. 

Ludicrous, the, Germans less sensible 
of, 2, 168. 

Ludlow, 2, 8. 

Lumberers' camp, life in, 1, 16. 

Lumbermen, require ready • made 
clothes, 1, 89. See alsOf Wood- 

Lure, Guillaume de, burned at Poitiers 
in 1453, 2, 381. 

Luther, on the children of witches, 2, 
363 ; story that he was the son of a 
demon refuted by Wierus, 363 n ; 
story of a demon who ynM/amultis 
in a monastery, 367 ; alsOt 2, 125, 
171 ; 3, 318 ; 4, 82. 

Luxembourg, Marshal de, the Deyil 
flies away with him, 2, 333. 

Lycanthropy, common belief in, 2, 

Lycaon, King, 2, 360. 

Lyceum, as a substitute for the old 
popular amusements, 1, 78. 

Lydgate, 3, 329, 345; his Craft cj 
Lover* quoted, 348. 



Lyliif; to a wltoh on hor trial Juitlfi- 
able, 2, 379. 

Lytnan, Theodore, his aeat at Wal- 
tham, 2, 2»1. 

Ljmrh-law not to be tolerated in af- 
fairs of government, 6, 72. 

Ljmdhure^ Lord, 2, '276. 

Lyon, Dr., alchemitit, 2, 48. 

Lyrical cry, 3, 144 n. 

Lytton, Baron. Pelham^ 2, 106. 

Macaulay, his estimate of Lessing, 2. 
173 ; his sources, 284 ; his historical 
method, 6, 124. 

McClkllan, Gkm., his Rbfobt, 6, 92- 

McClkllan or Lincoln ? 18G4, 6, 152- 
176; popular enthusiasm for and 
confidence in, 94; failure of tlie 
Peninsular campaign, 94, 107 ; pub- 
lishes his Report as a political de- 
fence, 95, 111, 113; his reputation 
compared to a rocket, 95 ; his delay 
and indeciHion, 96, 104 ; his military 
duties interfered with by political 
aspirations, 98, 101 ; the flattery 
heaped ui>on him, 99 ; his judgment 
affected thereby, 99; hampered by 
his great reputation, 100; under- 
takes to advise the Presiilent on po- 
litical matters, 100; growth of his 
egotism, 101 ; the personal sacrifices 
and patriotism of which he boasts, 
102 ; repeated demands for reinforce- 
ments, 103, 108 ; his exaggerated es- 
timate of the opposing forces, 104, 
107 ; his plan of campaign impracti- 
cable, 105 ; his conceptions vi^cue, 
106 ; his expectations of the Penin- 
sular campaign di8aiq[>ointed, 106; 
his adhesiveness of temper, 107, 109 ; 
his retreat well conducted, 108 ; the 
effect on the spirit of t^e army, 
109, 113 ; no lack of support from 
the Administration, 111 ; his unbe- 
coming charges on it. Ill ; his defi- 
ciencies as a leader, 112 ; his quali- 
fications as a Presidential candidate, 
113, 154; the platform of 1864 dan- 

Serous ground for him, 157 ; his 
isingenuouR treatment of the plat- 
form, 100, 174 ; his policy compared 
with Lincoln's, 164 ; his theories in 
regard to coercion confused, 165; 
has not been called upon to put his 
political theories into practice, 165 ; 
his attitude toward slavery, 166; 
fails to realize the changes wrought 
by the war, 166, 171 ; views on the 
conduct of the war, 168 ; his policy 
Of conciliation futile, 170, 176 ; oflQce 
not to be given him as a poultice for 
bruised sensibilities, 171; relation 
to the Democratic party, 174; his 
election would be an acknowledg- 
ment of the right of secession, 175. 

McDonald of Olenaladale, B, S2IL 

McDowell, Gten., hia dlenoe imd«r 
slanderous reproach, 6, 97 ; hia part 
in the Peninsular campaign, 107, 

Macer, 6, 126. 

MacHeath, 6, 1^7. 

Hachiavelll, 1, 92; 2, 220, 260; % 
85 ; on the recalling of the ezHea to 
Florence in 1311, 194 n ; on the nat- 
ural term of governments, 6. 86; 
on three kinds of brains, S, 177. 

Madden, Sir Frederick, 1, 880. 

Madison on the right of ooendoo, 6. 

Maecenas, villa of, at Hvoli, 1, 182. 

Maelstrom in Worcester's Gooffrapby, 

Miitzner on editors, 1, 319. 

Maggot in the brain, 1, 862; S, 64, 

Magic, its power to give life to Inanl- 
mate things, 2, 357; the Devil** 
school of, hi Toledo, S68. 

Magnanimity, 6, 307. 

Mahomet in the Divine Comedy^ 4w 

Maidstone, John, 2, 86. 

Ifail-bag, lost from a rtage-eottch, 

Mail-carrier in Italy, 1, 163. 

Maine dew, 1, 19. 

Maistre, Joseph de, 3, 116 ; on Prot- 
estantism, 2, 6; on what a man 
should know, 6, 168. 

Majorities, government by, PoUard'a 
objections to, 6, 134. 

Makeshifts, the American habit of ao* 
quiesciug in, 6, 206. 

Majahoodus River, moose-huntine on, 

Malediction, Italian, the udvenal, 1. 

Malone, 1, 251 ; 3, 19; 6, 120; Tene- 
deaf, 3, 346. 

Malory, Sir Thomas, 2, 126 ; his lan- 
guage, 3, 12 n. 

Malta, secured by Britannia from tbs 
caldron of war, 1, 120. 

Malvern Hill, battle of, 6, 108. 

Man, reflected in Natiure, 1, 877; 
Dante's conception of his mghMt 
end, 4, 166; the shortoiees m hia 
days, 6, 139. See alsoy Human b»> 
ture ; Society ; Soul. 

Mandrake's groan, snpentitioiw ooo- 
ceming, 1, 276. 

Manetti on the date of Dante** Uffh, 

Manias, Sir K. Digbj*8 eure for, 2. 

liankind wiser than the single man, 8l 

Manliness exemplified in JBleldiog, 6^ 

Mannerism and style, 3t 88. 



Manners, their decline bewailed by 
R. M. the Cambridge constable, 
1. G5 ; in Boston in earlier times, 2, 

Manners and morals under the Resto- 
ration, 3, 151. 

Marathon, 1, 191. 

Mare's nests the delight of the Ger- 
man scholar, 2, 1C3. 

Marie de France, 3, 313, 325; her 
treatment of final and medial e, 

Marini, 4, 8. 

Marlay, Chief Justice, congratulates 
Dryden, 3, 18G n. 

xMarlborougli, 1, 302 ; 2, 114. 

Marlowe, characterized, 1, 277 ; his 
unrhyined i>entameter, 3, 8 ; his 
language, 18 ; 4, 104 n ; his verse, 

3, 34G ; 4, 108, 110 ; on liell, 175. 
Fnnsttis quoted, 4, 93 n ; Tnmhnr- 

laine, 105 ; passage taken from Spen- 
ser, 332 n ; quoted, 327. 

Maroons, of Surinam, 6, 231. 

Marriage ceremony, the " with all my 
worldly goods," etc., 6, 9. 

Marseillaise, 4, 355. 

Marshall, Chief Justice, anecdote of, 

4, 409. 

Marston, his dramatic works reprinted 

in the " Library of Old Authors," 1, 

254 ; the editor's poor English, 202 ; 

his general incompetency, 205-270 ; 

sometimes deviates into poetry, 

207; his Sopfionisba, 207; on sla- 
very, 208 ; a middling poet, 271 ; his 

neologisms, 3, 8. 
Martial on snow, 3, 275. 
Martin, Martin, his Description of the 

Western Islands, 1, 109. 
Martin's thermometer, 3, 196. 
Martineau, Miss, on Wordsworth's 

conversation, 4, 400 n. 
Martyrs, 6, 320; their stakes the 

mile-stones of Christianity, 10. 
Marvell, 3, 150 ; 4, 159 ; Horatian ode, 

and Elegy, 3, 110; on the Dutch, 

233; on Charles I., 4, 70. 
M irvellous,the, its fascination, 2, 390. 
Mary, Queen of Scots, in the Faery 

Qiieen^ 4, 319 n. 
Maryland, Pinckuey's denunciation of 

slavery in the Assembly in 1789, 6, 

Masculine quality of Emerson, 1, 351, 

358, 3(56. 
Mason, George, of Virginia denounced 

slavery, 6, 144. 
Mason, Capt. John, 2, 57 ; his account 

of the dissolution of Parliament in 

1055, 33 ; on disorders of CromwuU's 

soldiers, 30. 
Mason, William, his Caraclacus and 

Elfrida, 2, 134. 
Mason and Dixon's lines not to be 

drawn in the world of ethics, B, tf. 

Masquerades, English, 1, 199. 

Massachusetts, compared with Vir- 
ginia in its early institutions, 2. 16 ; 
the village school-house described, 
16 ; her loyaltv to the general gov- 
ernment, 6, 09 ; at the Philadelphia 
convention of 1806, 285 ; abolition of 
property qualification for suffrage, 
6, 10 ; financial probity of the state, 
11 ; Irish peasants on the worn-out 
farms of, 25; its condition at the 
time of the founding of Harvard 
College, 143 ; the religious enthusi- 
asm and business sagacity of its 
founders, 140 ; their public spirit 
shown in their care for education, 
147 ; her debt to the graduates of 
Harvard, 156. See also. New Eng- 

Massachusetts Hall. See Harvard 

Masshiger, Coleridge on his versifioa* 
tion, 3, 340. 

Masson, his edition of Milton. See 
Milton — Poetical Works. 
his Life of Milton, its length and 
slow accomplishment, 4, 58; the 
large space occupied by contempo- 
rary history, 00 ; unessential mat- 
ters treated witii too great detail, 
02 ; compared to Allston'u picture of 
Elijah hi the Wilderness, 63; his 
impertinent details of a pseudo-dra> 
matic kind, 65 ; his unsuitable fa- 
miliarity, 07 ; instances of vulgarity 
of treatment, 08 ; of attempted hu- 
mor, 09 ; his style stilted in speaking 
of every-day matters, 71 ; his inap- 

f>ropriate figures, 71 ; his unhappy 
nfection with the vivid style, 72 ; 
his minuteness of detail and diffuse- 
ness, 74 ; discusses the possibility of 
Milton's military training, 76 ; his 
fondness for hypothetical incidents, 
78 ; the valuable matter in his vol<- 
umes, 79; lacks skill as a story- 
teller, 80 ; his analyses of Milton's 
prose writings and of the pamphlets 
written against him, 85; failure to 
draw a living portrait of Milton, 87 ; 
on Milton's versification, 105. 

Mate, Chief, anecdotes of X, 1, 114. 

Material prosperity, danger of an ab- 
sorption in, 6, 227. 

Materialism, 4, 18; the occasion of 
both superstition and unbelief, 2, 
390; Dante on, 4, 205 n. 

Mather, Cotton, bewailed the attrac- 
tions of the tavern, 1, 78 ; his part 
in the witchcraft delusion, 2, 11; 
the Moffnalin^ its vices of style 
and of thought, 3, 139 n ; his ped- 
antry, 6, 150 ; aho, 1, 252, 351 ; 2, 

Mather, Increase, on the Devil, 1, 



Jiemarkatitf PrortdenreM^ reprintH 
iu thR "Library of Old Aiithont/' 
1, 252 : the poor Enf{liHli of tli« ml- 
itor, '2M ; his inaccaracies, 257. 2UU. 

MauiideviUe, Sir John, cited, 1, 335. 

Maury, Alfrt^l, on the origin of the 
witcheR' Sabbath, 2, 347 ; on witch- 
craft, 387. 

Mayflower, Ship, 6, 110. 

Maxarin, Cardinal, put a stop to exor- 
ciain, 2, 371 ; his motto, 6, 188. 

Mazeppa, 1, 13G. 

Meaning of words, intensity supposed 
to be gained by mere aggregation, 

1, «). 

MtH'hanics, American, 6, ^. 

Mo<l. Fac8. of Harvard College, 1, 

M(*dal, the world compared to, 1, 98. 

Meiiiifval art demands revolting tyi>es, 
4 175. 

Mediii'val literature, Ovid's influence 
on, 3, 301. 

Meilii'iue, B.iron on the quack in med- 
icine compared to the practical man 
in politicK, 6, 192. 

Medio<>rity, the true Valhalla of, 1, 

MEDrrKRRANEAir, In the, 1, 113-120 ; 
phosphoreHccnce in, 104 ; the hot 
niKhtB, IIG ; the Cliief Mate's opui- 
ion of, 110. 

Melanctlion on a poHscpsed girl's know- 
ledge of Virgil, 2, 3W5. 

Memoirs, contemporary, their value, 

M(>mory, 6, 70 ; quickened in process 
of druwniufr, 1, 75 ; whipping a ben- 
eflt to, 3, 95. 

M(?uage, hiH warning against catching 
Are, 3, 203. 

Mendelssohn, Lessfng's friendship 
with, 2, 197; Lessiug's last letter 
to, 213. 

Mendez Pinto, Ferdinand, his exagger- 
ations, 1, 40. 

Mendicancy, a liberal profession in 
Rome, 1, 208. See also, Beggars. 

MophistophcleR, his oT)portunity, 1, 
78 ; coimection with Vulcan, 2, 348. 

Mercer, Rev. Dr., of Newport, R. I., 
gives a bust of Coleridge to West- 
minster, 6, 08. 

Mercy, Lnuglnnd on, 3, 333. 

Merlin, 1, 32, 328 ; 2, 302. 

Mermaid, autobiography of, imagined, 

2, 202. 

Merman, Webster's story of a mer- 
man bitsliop, 1, 110. 

Merope. See Arnold, Matthew. 

Mctiiplior and simile, 4, 21. 

Metaphors not arguments, 6, 17 ; ex- 
travagant metaphors in French dra- 
matic poetry, 3, 159. See also, 

Metaphysicians, 3, 194. 

Meteoric showers, 1, 201. 

Meteorologii'-al ambitions of ooontxy 
dwellers, 3, 19G. 

Meteorological obaervatkms, 3, 197. 

MetliuseUh, the poflsibilitiee of bis 
biography ronsinered, 4, 69. 

Metre. See Knglish prosody; Yens. 

Mexican War, 6, 212. 

Mexiciins, ronvcraion of, bj the Spui- 
i:\rdr, 3. 301. 

Mexico, 2, 273. 

Michael Angelo, the character of hin 
work, 1, 197. 205 ; his sonnets com' 
pared witli Petrarch's, 2, 25G; his 
bawn, 4, 105 ; his chnmber in Flor- 
ence, 120 ; aUOj 1, 61 ; 3, 123 ; 4, 
114, 119, 141. 

Micholet, 6, 120. 

Michigan, the case of her secession 
Rup])Osed, 6, 54. 

Middle Apes, sympathy with, 1, 212 ; 
imaped iu the Divlna Commedia^ 
4, 159. 

Mi'ldliuK poets, 1, 271. 

Military genius, its two varieties, 6, 

Military leader, sympathy for a de- 
feated, 6, 92 ; idealized by his coun- 
try, 93. 

MilliuKtfin, Miss, on the Prince of 
Wales's motto, 3, 14 n. 

Millstonep, the sympathy of kindred 
pursuits compared to, 1, 118. 

Milo, 3, 350. 

MUor in partihus, 1, 124. 

Milton. 4, 58-117 : his figure in- 
vested with a halo of sacredness, 
07 ; his personal dignity, 67, 101 ; 
his sense of his own greatness, 68 ; 
his manner little affected by other 
English poets, 75 ; believed himself 
set apart for a divine mission, 78, 
82; his work as a controversiid- 
ist desultory and ephemera], 80; 
essentially a doctrinaire, 81 ; his 
training poetical and artistic, 81 ; 
identified liimself with his contro- 
versies, 82, 84, 115; the finer pas- 
sages in his prose, 82; his prose 
valuable for its style and inspira- 
tion, 83; his egotism in sympathy 
with tlie national egotism of the 
Jews, 83 ; literature with him an 
end not a means, 85 ; the formation 
of his style, 85; the circumstances 
of his life, 87 ; peculiarities of Ids 
vocabulary, 88 ; his spelling, 89 ; his 
avoidance of harsh combinations of 
sounds, 94 ; his use of the sh and eh 
soinid, 95 ; a harmonitit rather tlian' 
a luelodiHt. 90 ; his greatness in the 
larger movements of metre, 97 ; his 
use of alliteration, assonance, and 
rhyme, 97; not always careful of 
the details of his verse, 99 ; his im- 
agination diifuses itself, not con- 



denses, 99 ; his fondness for indefi- 
nite epithets, 100; he generalizes 
instead of specifying, 100 ; his ocr,<\- 
sional use of abrupt pauses, 101 ; 
his respect for his own work, 101 ; 
the sustained strength of his begin- 
nings, 102 ; parallel passages in ear- 
lier authors, 104; his versification, 
105, 309 n; 3, 346 ; his elisions, 4, lOG, 
111 n ; his few unmanageable verses, 
110; his love of tall words, 113; 
the most scientific of our poets, 1 14 ; 
his haughty self-assertion, 114 ; his 
self-consciousness, 116; his grand 
loneliness and independence of hu- 
man sympathy, 117 ; Marlowe his 
teacher in versification, 1, 277 ; the 
abuse bestowed upon, compared 
with the treatment of Keats, 225; 
Boger Williams^s notices of, as sec- 
retary of the Council, 2, 31 ; his 
evMlbnt sympathy with Satan, 3, 3 ; 
quality of his imagination, 40 ; his 
manner, 41 ; instance of reduplica- 
tion of sense, 50; studied by Dry- 
den, 109, 136 ; he dies in obscurity, 
4, 1 ; his literary opinions reflected 
in Phillips' Theatnim Poelarnm^ 
2 ; translated, 6 ; regarded theology 
above poetry, 18 ; in Florence, 120 ; 
had read Dante closely, 146 ; a stu- 
dent of Spenser, 302, 305 n, 333 ; 
gradual change of his opinions, 315 n ; 
the movement of his mind compared 
to the trade-wind, 402 ; his work 
saved by its style, 6, 64 ; also, 2, 30, 
221,-226 ; 3, 12 n, 100, 150, 185, 337 ; 
4, 25, 150 ; 6, 140, 145. 
compared with Shakespeare, 3, 40; 
with Burke in political wisdom, 4, 
81; with Dante, 162, 171; with 
Dante in the circumstances of his 
life, 87 ; in character, 116. 
on fugitive and cloistered virtue, 2, 
249 ; on Dryden, 3, 114 ; on winter, 
267 ; on decorum in poetry, ^ 2 ; on 
the collectors of personal traditions 
of the Apostles, 63 ; on his morning 
exercise, 76; on his political writ- 
ings, 85 ; on Spenser, 207 n, 314 ; on 
union with truth, 255 n. 
Dryden on his rhymes, 3, 110 ; Pope 
on, 4, 116 ; liasson's Life of. See 

Areopagitiea, 4, 83; a plea rather 
than an argument, 84 ; Comus^ the 
Lady (Conntess of Carbery) de- 
scribed by Taylor, 47 ; source of the 
** airy tongues," 105 ; Lycidng, 29, 
97 ; Dr. Johnson on, 3, 110 ; Masson 
on the " two-handed engine," 4, 71 ; 
verse suggested by Spenser, 307 n ; 
Nativity Ode, 97 ; Paradise Lost, 
Keats's comments on, 1, 224 ; its 
feeling of vastness, 4, 99, 101 ; its 
didactic parts, 102 ; compared with 

the Divine Comedy, 162 ; Paradise 
Regained quoted, 84 n ; Poetical 
Works, Masson's edition, 87 ; his 
discussions of Milton's langui^e and 
spelling, 88, 102 ; the notes very 
good, 104 ; the treatment of versifi- 
cation, 105 ; Samson Agonistes, 92 
n, 114; its success as a reproduc- 
tion, not imitation of Oreek tragedy, 
2, 133 ; Solemn Music, 4, 97 ; — 
Sonnet to Cromwell, 3, 116 ; — tSlon- 
net, When the Assault was intended 
on the City, 4, 69. 
Mimetic power, 2, 240. 
Minerva, in a Paris bonnet, 1, 190. 
Miuiato, San, the annual procession of 

monks to, 1, 106. 
Minnesingers, 3, 304 ; sunrise on land 

compared to, 1, 106. 
Mirabeau, Carlyle's picture of, 2, 89. 
Mirabeau, Bailli of, on the English 

political constitution, 6, 33. 
Mirror for magistrates^ 4, 278. 
Mishaps, like knives, to be taken prop- 
erly, 1, 43. 
Misprints, 1, 263; examples of, in 

Marston's works, 265, 273. 
Mississippi steamboats, 2, 130. 
Missouri compromise, 6, 142, 145. 
Mobs, 6, 134 ; the only many-headed 
tyrant, 301 ; Napoleon's rules for 
dealing with, 84 ; in democratic cit- 
ies, 6, 23. 
Mock-heroic, the, 4, 32. 
Models, artists', 1, 178. 
Moderation, 5, 321. 
Modem civilization, the reaction 

against its softening effect, 6, 250. 
Modem life more prosaic, 2, 285. 
Modem literature, individualism of, 
2, 158 ; its extravagance, 3, 37 ; its 
self-consciousness, 292 ; its true or- 
igins among the Trouv^res, 309 ; the 
representation of common sense its 
office, 4, 46. 
Mohra, Sweden, witches of, in 1670, 2, 

Moliere, his comic power, 1, 278; ac- 
cused of plagiarism, 3, 300 ; influ- 
enced by Cervantes, 6, 135 ; also, 3, 
Mommsen gives us the beef-tea of 

history, 2, 284. 
Monarchy, Dante on universal, 4, 151 ; 
the force of prestige and sentiment 
in, 6, 184. 
Money, its use abjured by some zeal- 
ous transcendentalists, 1, 362 ; of a 
sincere man, 2, 243 ; effect of the 
credit system upon, 4, 118 n. 
Monomania of Don Quixote, 6, 130. 
Monopodes, 1, 111. 
Monotony of the sea, 1, 101 
Monroe, Fortress, 6, 326. 
Monroe doctrine to be put in prac- 
tice bj the South, 6, 323. 




HonitroftltiM heralded as wonders, 3, 

Hoiitafifa, Lndy Mary Wnrtley, 1, 
3t>1 ; Popc^a relatioiiM to, 4, r>l. 

Moutaiitne, in liin tower, 1, UiT ; liis 
objects in trarel, l'.'*2; in Ri)uu>, 
213 ; his range narrow but deep, 
3(i5 ; hU originality, 373 ; the K(>- 
clesiastes of the 16th cent., 2, U7 ; 
thi> flrtct modem writer and oritir, 
21!! : his ronft>Minn*, '2C1 ; dit>bt>- 
IIi'VihI ill witclirraft. 3S7 ; his credii- 
litv, «ttN'i; hiH A'Mr/f/x, 6,00; aUo, 1, 
241). 3:i(l, VTiW ; 2, '2U0, '2»\ ; 3, 1(5, 
W. 71!. 78 ; 6. H'^'.. 

on Italv. 1, ViW: on suicide, 3, 141 
n ; on Ifrauce, 'J31 ; on education, 8, 
Carlyle on, 2, 85. 

Montofiore. Sir Moses, requests that 
pniyors be otfered in PoleHtine for 
P^•^ilIent Garfield's recovery, 8, 44. 

Moi)t«>rt4|uieu, 8f 14. 

Monticclli, 1, 145. 

Moun, Clupniou's line on, 1, 105 ; its 
"scoffing away "the clouds, 111); 
in winter, 3, 289; responsible in 
some degree for the weather, 315. 

Moonlight on th(^ sails at sea, 1, 104. 

Moonrise, on the Penobscot, 1, 33 ; in 
winter, 3, 289. 

Moore, Edw., Gamefter^ the posnible 
source of Lessing's Miss Sara 
Sampson^ 2, 177. 

Moore, Frank, Jiebellion Record, its 
defects, 6, 240 ; its value, 247. 

Moore, Ttiomas, fondness for siiuileR. 
1, 103 ; his influence traced on J 
G. Percival, 2, 145 ; his friendship 
with Byron, 238 ; his pilgrimage to 
Les Charniett«^s, 238; his life a 
sham, 240 ; ahOy 4, 391 u ; 
on Rousseau, 2, 238; on French 
heroic verse, 3, 1^1 n. 

MoosEHEAD Journal, 1853, 1, 1-42. 

Moosehead Lake, trip up the lake on 
a steamer, 1, 13 ; paddling to the 
Northwest Carry, 24 ; across the 
Carry, 28; passage into the west 
branch of the Penobscot, 33. 

Moose-himting by night, incidents of, 

Moral and ieRthetic defects, their con- 
nection, 2, 91. 

Moral dilettante, 2, 253. 

Moral forces in war, 2, 100. 

Moral laws, 5, 223. 

Moral poetry, French success in, 4, 

Moral supremacy, 4, 120. 

Morals and science, the advance in, 
compared, 4, 254. 

MornliHt (lintiuguished from the Art- 
ist. 4, l(yj. 

Moralitv and fPHthetics, 2, 242. 

More, Henry, on witchcraft, 2^ 11, 338, 

I 377: on the stench left by the 
l>i>vil, 347 : on Biteniter, 4, 314. 

Moretum. See Virgil. 

MoruioniHui, itH chdin to antiquity of 
no Intlueuee, 6, 13. 

Morning, at uea and on shore oom-' 
|)ared, ], lUG; in the Roman 
stre<*ts, 152. 

Morra^ the game, 1, 152. 

Morris, Gen., passage cited, S* M. 

Morris, Richard, on Chaucer's verae, 

Morse, Royall, the Cambridge consta- 
ble, 1, (Ui. 

Morton, Eliza Susaui wife of Prea. 
Quincy, 2, 299. 

MoHQuitoes in the woods, 1, 27. 

Mother Goofo, versification of, 3, S38. 

Mothers of great men, 4, 3C2. 

Motley. J. L., on the Dutch, 3, 233. 

Mountiiui names, 1, 13. » 

Mouiitnin towns of Italy, 1, 172. 

Muuntahifl, are geologiod noses, 1, 13 ; 
apprcriation of their sublimity. 41 ; 
the sun as seen from the top o/, 106 ; 
the bloom on, 114, 130; between 
Genezzano and Olevano, 171 ; the 
fondness for, 3, 257 ; a/«o, 4f 117. 

Mriuskes, Philippe, his verse, 3, 347. 

Mozart, 2, 187 ; on Gellert, 139. 

Mud-wagon, ride in, 1, 10. 

Mugcleton, 3, 02. 

Muggletouians, 1, 81. 

Muuroe, Mayor, of New Orleaiu, S, 

Murfreesboro, battle of, 5, 108. 

Muso, the, a companion, n(^ a guide, 
2, 108. 

MuKes have no fancy for statisticfl, 2. 

Music, a knowledge of, important to a 
I)oet, 4, 4. 

Musquash, 3, 199. 

Musset, Alfred de, a passage oompared 
with Dryden, 3, 167 n. 

Muster, in Old Cambridge, 1, 77. 

Mutual admiration, 2, 219. 

Mutual admiration society described 
by Goldsmith, 2, 201. 

Mylius, Lessing's tutor, 2, 182. 

Mvluer of Abmgton, Haslltt on, 1, 

Mysterious, the, it& disappearance 
from the world, 1, 112. 

M^-thf), origin and transformationa of, 
2, 359. 

M3rthology, tendency of the mind to 
assign improbable causes to unac- 
countable gifts, 1, 32 ; the imagina- 
tion the chief agent in the growth 
of, 2, 318. 

Nakedness of mind frequently un- 
heeded, 1, 45. 

Nameo, mountain names, 1, 13; llnm 
on names of places, 14 ; value of, 227 ; 



the a8BOctatIoi>9 connected with, 2, 
273; MUton'8 use of, 4, 105; the 
limitations of, 6, 193. 

Nannucci, Intomo allevooi uaate da 
Dante, 4, 169 n. 

Napier, 1, 31. 

Naples. See also^ Neapolitans. 

Napoleon I., his portrait in the Cam- 
bridge barber's shop, 1, G2 ; com- 
pared with Frederick the Great, 2, 
114 ; fails to recognize Bolivar, 283 ; 
recipe for saving life in dealing with 
a mob, 6, 84 ; at St. Helena, 97 ; the 
moralist's view of, 129; on the 
French Revolution, 6, 33 ; also. 2, 
237 ; 6, 23. 

Napoleon III., 6, 23, 129 ; unappreci- 
ated before the coup d^etat of 1851, 

Narrative, who can write it well, 1, 
121 ; wearisome to Carlyle, 2, 102. 

Narrative poetry, 3, 351 ; faults of, 4, 
321. See also. Descriptive poetry. 

Narrow range of many great men, 1, 

Nash on Harvey's hexameters, 4, 278 n. 

Nations, their manhood tried by dan- 
gers and opportunities, 6, 63 ; their 
readiness to accept a hero, 93 ; sym* 
bolized as women, 94 ; the sins of, 

National character, the effect on, of 
postponing moral to material inter- 
ests, 6, 88. 

National instinct in the Prussian peo- 
ple, 2, 100. 

National pride of the Old World and 
the New 2, 1. 

National success, the true measure of, 
8, 174. 

Nationality, in poetry, 2, 150 ; in liter- 
ature, tending to disappear, 152 ; its 
germ in provincialisra, 279; ham- 
pered in America, 280 ; as a quality 
in literature, 4, 270 ; 6, 115 ; the 
feeling lacking in America before 
the Civil War, 6, 211 ; its effect on 
the life of man, 216. 

Natural, the meaning of the word va- 
ries from one generation to another, 

Naturalness, 1, 375 ; in literature, 2, 
83 ; 3, 357. See aUo^ Unconvention- 

Nature, Moore's view of, 1, 103; 
modem sentimental ism about, 375 ; 
man's connection with, its most in- 
teresting aspect, 376 ; in Thoreau's 
writings, 381 ; her indifference to 
man, 2, 131 ; as viewed by Rous- 
seau and the sentimentalists, 266 ; 
the early view of, 319 ; the free 
shows provided by, 3, 257 ; Chau- 
cer's love of, 355 ; the love of. a 
modem thing, 260; ignored by 
French criticism, 4, 9 ; its double 

meanings, 258 ; Wordsworth on the 
infinite variety of, 368 ; its effect on 
the imaginative and the solitary, %, 
104; descriptions of, as employed 
by the great poets. 111. See cUsOf 
landscape ; Scenery ; Views. 

Nature of things, the difficulty of dis- 
covering and of accommodating 
our lives to, 6, 120. 

Nature-cure of Wordsworth and 
others, ^411. 

Navagero, Bernardo, on the classes in 
Austria in 1546, 6, 14. 

Neapolitans, their laziness, 1, 131. 

Neatness, a characteristic of Wash- 
ington AH ton, 1, 72 ; the faculty of, 
bestowed by destiny on some men, 

Nebuchadnezzar cited as an instance 
of men turned into beasts, 2, 360. , 

Neglect not an evidence of genius, 2, 

Negro plots in New York in 1741, 2, 

Negro suffrage, advocated, 6, 228 ; in- 
sisted upon as essential, 261 ; de- 
manded by the Radical party, 303 ; 
not to be expected from the South 
itself, 311. See aUo, Reconstruc- 

Negroes, effect of slavery upon, 6, 
^4 ; prejudice against, less strong 
at the South, 231. iSee also, Colored 
soldiers; Freedmen; Slavery. 

Nelson, his conception of his country, 
6, 104. 

Neptune in a tite-d-tiUf rather mo- 
notonous, 1, 101. 

Neptune, Planet, discovery of, 6, 120. 

Nero, Leopoldo's historical scapegoat, 
1, 142. 

Netherlands, Dante's system com- 
pared to the Constitution of, 4, 152. 

New England two cbntubies ago, 2, 
1-76 ; the record of its history in 
the life of to-day, 1 ; faith in God, in 
man, and in work, the spirit of its 
founders, 2 ; its history dry and 
unpicturesque seen from without, 
2; the central idea and intention 
of its founders, 3 ; reaction of their 
principles upon England, 4 ; the hu- 
morous side of its history brought 
out by Irving, and the poetic by 
Cooper, 5 ; the charge of fanaticism 
unfounded, 6, 9 ; the founders build- 
ers from the beginning, not destroy- 
ers, 8 ; enthusiasts but not fanatics, 
9 ; the settlement of New England a 
business venture, 9 ; dealings with 
sectaries, 10 ; the witchcraft delu- 
sion, 10 ; decline of Puritanism, 12 ; 
New England the outgrowth of Eng- 
lish Puritanism, 13 ; the early estab- 
lishment of common school", 15; 
its far-reaching importance, 17 ; the 



"Winthrop Paperm" 21; Croni- 
welPd opiiiioii of, 33 ; the teiii]ier- 
aiice qiu'rttion, 41 ; difllriiltieit of 
doiiieKtic iwrvic.', 4'2 ; iiitcrpxt in al- 
chemy, 4ri. .*>1 ; Kiwanl HoweM, 4(i ; 
Jonathan lirawrter. Til ; 8ir Keiielm 
Dif^by, 54i ; Ciptaiii Uinlerhill, 57 ; 
Coddiiifirtoii, Va ; the Quakers, (Mi ; 
the Iiidiaut, (W ; Juhn Tinker, TO ; 
the decline of Puritan vigor, T'J ; in- 
crease of provincialiitin after 1(U'^), 
73: the IntereKt of Nvw England 
hiMtory gregariuiis rather than i>or- 
soual, 74 ; the growth of demo- 
cracy, 74 ; Its small place iu the 
worlir^ hiHt4>ry, 'J7- ; the ore- 
iiiit ii' inHtinc't in, 1, K) ; of fifty vears 
u)(0, 4, 374 ; till' h(>-im1I(><1 nuiical 
inni of, 6, '27r> ; tlm ttn^t hottlers a 
pnu-tiiMl tliouKli HonietimoH an im- 
practiriible jN'ople, 6| K*J ; early 
nniHket-ball currency, 8L* ; Kohin^on 
and BrewHt«'r on the mutual oltli- 
eatiouH of tlie early colonist?!, 97 ; 
Btoughton on the choice material of 
iti plinliucr, 144> ; made a good mar- 
ket for iMMiks by tiie presenile of tlie 
CoHi'ire, l."i<»; hifluence of Harvard 
College upon, 153 ; a college educa- 
tion priziMl in old times, l(i9; its 
leiuling induKtries being drawn to 
tlie Kfiuth, 'J 17. See nhn, America ; 
American; M^uicachusetts; Puritium; 

New England church-architecturo, 1, 

New Enu;lan<1 clergy, formerly an es- 
tUilihhment and an ariHtotrracy, 1, 
85; their charac*ter and influence, 
6, 144 : the clergy of the 17th and 
18th centuries, 151; their descend- 
ant'*, 15<>. 

New EngUnd life, some sentiment of 
ttie Hca essential to it, 1, G9; fos- 
tered the l)elief in witchcraft, 2, 
37() ; its intellectual independence 
secured by tlie founding of Harvard 
Co]l;>ge, 6, 143 ; its character in 
18th eejit.. 155. 

N«w England pronunciation, 2, 70. 

New England school-house described, 
2, IC. 

Newfoundland, a British parson's 
prophecy for, 3, 243. 

Newman, the white-and -yellow- washer 
in Cambridge, 1, 59. 

Newuinn. Cardinal, on Homeric me- 
tre, 1, 291. 

Newness, unsati'^'vi ip, 1, 5. 

New Orleans, 5, ^'l.•. 

Newspaper boy, his morcnntile inter- 
est in horrors, i, 5. 

Newspaper correKponrlentf, Noah the 
patron saint of, 1, 102. 

Newspaper speculations on politics, 

Newspapers, American, 2, 154; tha 
pnbli:; demand for fresh goaaip, 6t 
1240; value of their contemponury 
picture of life, 241 ; make tlie whoto 
nation a great town meeting, 244 ; 
give publicity to grievances, 6, 13 ; 
their unimportant and belittling gos- 
sip, 88 : tlieir |tower, 175; their ref- 
erences to bribery and political nub- 
chiiury, *J0O. See alsOf Jourual- 

Newton, Sir Isaac, 4, 155; 6, 13. 

New World epic, its protagonist, 2, S. 

New York, its wrangle with Boston, 
2, 278 ; the imagined negro plots in 
1741, 375. 

Niagara Fslls, the first sight of, com- 
pared to the first sight of St. Peter's, 
1. 19-J. 

NiMiitif/en Liedy 2, 152, 359 ; Preder- 
ick the Creates contempt for, 112; 
publinhed by Bodmer in 1767, 4, 6; 
its character, 228, 229. 

NicallKon, JoHCph, 2, G4. 

Nicknumes, 1, 58. 

Nicola! , Chr. Fr., 2, 197. 

Nightingale. See under Birds. 

Nightmare, 2, 321. 

Niniroud, palaces of, 1, 70. 

Noah, remarks on his life at sml 1, 

Noble, Mark, Hifttyry of the Houae nf 
CromvtelU % 388 n. 

Noon in St. Peter's, Rome, 1, 200. 

Norman crusaders, 3, 248. 

Norman tronveres. See TrooT^res. 

>] onnaii-French literature, contempt 
for emancipated serfs expressed in, 

Normans, their influence on the devel- 
opment of epic poetry in France and 
England, 3, 313 ; influence on Rng- 
lish character and literature, 320. 

North, The. See United States— 

North Carolina, life of the older fam^ 
ilies of, 6, 309. 

Northcote, his story of the violin^ 
player and George III., 1, 210. 

Northmen, 3, 320. 

Northwest Carry on Moosehead Lake, 
1 28. 

Nose, t>ilking through, 3, 237, 242. 

Nostradamus, 6, 125. 

Notoriety, 4, 120 ; hi America, S, 277- 

Notoriety and fame, 272. 

Nott, 6, 220. 

Novalis, 1, 381 ; 2, 326. 

Novels. See Fiction. 

Novelty, danger of substituting it f<w 
truth, 2, 108. 

Nursing children, 2, 244. 

Symphidia. See Drayton. 

Oak, Wordsworth's life ooiiipM»4 to, 




Oath, manner of takin^ir, 1, 34G. 

Oaths. See Imprecatious ; S^^rear- 

Obituary of Lady Gosling, 2, 219. 

Oblivion, the next best thing to fame 
or infamy, 1, 315. 

Obscure authors, the reparation time 
brings tliem, 1, 314 ; the patlios of, 

Observation, honest, difficulty of se- 
curing, 1, 121. 

Obtuseness of men to their own fol- 
lies, verses on, 1, 81. 

Occasion. See Opportunity. 

Occleve, 3, 329 ; his portrait of Chau- 
cer, 294. 

Ocean . See Sea. 

Odium eestheticum, 4, 354. 

(Edipus, the feeling of Laius toward, 

Offer, George, editor of Mather's 
Provuiences, his poor EiiglUh, 1, 
25G ; his inaccuracies, 257, 2G0. 

Ogior le D mois, 3, 314. 

Ogletliorpe, 2, 291. 

Okey, Colonel, 2, 24. 

01(1 age, 3, 258 ; of Josiah Quincy, 2, 
308; Laiigl»n<rs lines on, 3, 333; 
Dante on, 4, 181 ; absence of decid- 
ed opinions in, 6, 7. 

Old Authors, Library of, 1, 247-348. 

Old books, 1, 247 ; the associations 
clustering about tlieni, 250. 

Old ways, love of, 3, 220. 

Oldest surviving graduate, his advan- 
tages, li 82. 

Oldham, Dryden and Hallam on, 3, 

Olevano, visit to, 1, 173; the view, 

Olive-trees near Tivoli, 1, 139. 

Oliver and Fierabras, 3, 310. 

Olympic games of the nations, 2, 279. 

Omar, Calipli, his example in burning 
libraries to be followed by politi- 
cians, 6, 190. 

Oaoida, 3, 212. 

Onions, 1, GO. 

Opera, as an approach to ancient 
drama, 2, 132. 

Opinion, tlie kinship of, 6, 182. 

Opinion, public. See Public opinion. 

Opinion and affection, Selden on, 2, 

Opinions, 6, IGO; other people's, 3, 

Opium, Coleridge's use of, 6, 76. 

Opportunity, 1, 374 ; 2, 277 ; 4, 391 n ; 
the imperturbable old clock of, 1, 
71 ; in the lives of men and of na- 
tions, 6, 270. 

Opportunity and danger, G3. 

Oppression, 6, 205 ; its moral effect on 
ttie oppressor, 222. 

Optimism of Cervantes, 6, 118. 

Orange, Prince of, his camp, 2, 57. 

Oratorio as the representative of an- 
cient drama, 2, 132. 
Oratory, Emersun's power, 1, 359 ; 

gopular oratory in the United States, 

Orestes, his case brought before the 
Areopagus, 2, 3G8 n. 

Orford, Earl of, listened to Statiua 
when drunk, 2, 129. 

Organ-music, 1, 101. 

Origin of man, its diversity proved by 
the Roman beggars, 1, 207. 

Original sin and the Emperor, 2, 22. 

Originality, 1, 20G ; 2, 135 ; 3, 90, 142 ; 
stirred by Emerson's lectures, 1, 
355 ; absolute originality impossible, 
372 ; its essential quality, 241, 373 ; 

2, 175 ; 3, 209, 301 ; gets rid of self- 
hood, 2, 259 ; healtliiness necessary 
to, 3, 292 ; tlie measure of, 4, 299 ; 
diatingnislied from eccentricity, 35G ; 
must not be sought, 395 ; the result 
of imagination, 6, 53 ; by itself does 
not anstire permanence, 108. Set 
also, Imitation. 

of Wasliington AUston, 1, 7G; Tho- 
reau's attempts at, 371 ; of Rousseau, 
2, 246 ; of Cliaucer, 3, 3G0 ; of Dante, 
4, 257. 

Orleans, Bishop of, exposes a pretend- 
ed case of possession, 2, 393. 

Orlt^ans, Ch. d', on winter, 3, 265 n. 

Orr, Governor, 5, 280. 

Orrery on mistakes in speaking and 
writing English, 3, 130 n. 

Ortlioioxy, Lessing on, 2, 215. 

Oisian, Tlioreau on, 1, 3G9. 

O^tend Manifesto, 6, 145. 

O-itricli, Dryden's style compared to, 

Ottiino Comento, on Dante's horo* 
scope, 4, 123 : on Dante's separation 
from the otlier Ghibellines, 132; on 
Dante's use of words, 139 ; quoted, 

Out-of-the-way, loved by Thoreau, 1, 

Overbury, Sir Tliomas, his Characters 
reprinted in the "Library of Old 
Authors," 1, 252 ; on his milkmaid, 

3, 292. 

Ovid, his failure to compose a treatise 
on the language of the Getm, 1, 
121 ; gives hints of sentimentalism, 
2, 253; Dryden on, 3, 180; influ- 
ence on mediiBval literature, 301: 
Spenser in Ireland compared to Ovid 
in Pontus, 4, 286 ; aho 3, 218, 2G3. 

Owls. See under Birds. 

Oxford, Dante's possible visit to, 4, 
124 ; elections at, B, 232. 

Oxford University, Dryden on, 3, 106; 
ttie spell of its venerable associa- 
tions, 6, 139. 

Oyster, tiie traveller beset by ciceroni 
compared to, 1, 134. 



Oyrtor-mMi in C-mbrWffp, the twin- 

liriithiTii 8110W, 1, (Mi. 
Ozaiiuu, mi D.inte, 4, ItH, '2'J'J n. 

P. — Prof. Popkin. 

PatlillhiK on MiH>M'liead Lake, 1, 24. 

pHKaii tlivinitieis their survival in the 
BU]ierHtition8 of Clirititiauity, 2t i^-^T. 

pAKuninn ilivitles from onf>*H syiupa- 
tliicM more than time, 1, 213. 

P:iin«s ThomaM, 2, 237. 

PuintuiK. AllKton the greatest English 
puiiiter of liiHtorical subjectH, 1, 75 ; 
pyniiiiMal tlieury of conipoisitiuu, 3, 
VK*. See iiho. Picture friillericH. 

PaloHtriim, vihit to, 1, 157 : the 
iiier!i*8 praises of her dnuuhter. 1^H. 

PiUirev, estimate of Huph Prtt-r. 2, 2U. 

Piilm Sunday in St. Peter's, 1, I'JG. 

PjilmerKtoii, 2, 27r». 

Pan, 4, 40:} ; identified with the Devil 
by Bod in, 2, 'AM. 

Paim<:eaH, MK-iul, 2, 01. 

Panio, cruelty the result of, 2, 375. 

PanthoiMui, 6, 1(>4; in Pope's Euay 
on Man^ 4| 37, 41. 

Pannrije, 2, *>. 

P;)pn<y, lies dead in the Vatican, 1, 
l.Vi: D.uite on its relations to the 
Empire, 4, 239. See also^ Roman 

Pancelrtus, 2, 120. 

Purnt'isf of Ihiiuty Devices, 3, 337. 

Pamlk'lisms in liistory, 6, 12(). 

Paralojjifttic roasoninir, 5, 127. 

Paris, Dante's jiossible visit to, 4* 124. 

Paris ond Helen, 1, G8. 

Paris, Gaston, 6, 152. 

Parivo la Ducliosse, 3, 310. 

Parker, Tlieodore, on the conception 
of democracy, 6, 20. 

Parkman, Francis, opinion of the In- 
dims, 2y 70. 

Parliament, 6, 27. 

ParnoHKus, its two peaks, 4, 378. 

Pannly, what is susceptible of, 3, 41. 

Parris, minister at Salem, his charac- 
ter, 2, .'i-S9. 

Parrot, <iuty demande<l for, and con- 
sequent qirirrel, 1, K'lH. 

Parsons, T. W., translation of the In- 
ferno, 4, 147. 

Particii)les in -ed, 4, 92. 

Particularization, 3| 357; Words- 
worth's power of, 4| 401. 

Party allegiance, 6, 1H4. 

Party govenmient, in America, 6, 
184; its evils, 6, 182: the necessity 
and the dnnp[er of, 210 ; the neces- 
sity for pi'liticians and leaders, 212 ; 
the ne<>d of a neutral body of inde- 
pendents, 212. See also^ Political 

Party manap^ers, 6, 285. 

Party platforms^ 6, 182 ; the strength 
of, 6, 37. 

Pnrzirnl. See Wolfram too 
bach, 4, 2:11. 

Pas<-al, Coleridge on, 6f 75. 

Pat'feagCK, 2| b2. 

PansawompM'Ot, visit at, 1, 166w 

Passion, as portrayed by the smt 
masters, 2, 123; in French litera- 
ture, 4, 20; poaaion and exaggexm- 
tion, 16. 

Passions, their f reshneaa and force in 
Europeans, 1, 1C9; more important 
to greatness than intellect, 170 ; the 
expression of, in literature, 3. S8, 

Past, the, 1, 356 ; ita conaecration, 2f 
273 ; its lite and customs, 293 ; mem- 
ories of. 305; regret for the Good 
Old Times, 395; ita power, 4, 80; 
its cumulative influence, 120 ; look- 
ing back upon, compared to looking 
over the waves, 12(i; reverence for, 
6, 12 : its result t^en in the present, 
6, 124; still carried on our crrp- 
per, 137. See aUOf Antiquity ; UlU 

Paf-toral poetry, 3, C4; 4, 284; in 
Spenser's time, 300; the language 
apfropriate for, 301 n. 

Pastourelles, 3, 3C1. 

Patchwork coveilet, the work of the 
Chicago Convention of 1864 com- 
pared to, 6, 156. 

P.itcridge, Sir Miles, 6, 128. 

Pathos in dramatic and narratlTe po- 
etry, 3, 351. 

of Lesshig's grief, 2, 210; of Field- 
ing, 6, 55: of Heine, 66; in Jkm 
Quixote, 120. 

Patience, 2, 81. 

Patri(;ianifrm, 2, 4. 

Patrick, Capt. Daniel. 2, 67. 

Patriotism, Roger WUltama on the 
quality of, 2, 73 ; in Oermany dux^ 
ing the 17th cent., 203; increaaed 
and extended by means of the tele- 
graph, 6, 243; needed «qnaUj in 
peace as m war, 6, 189; ita true 
meaning and value, 210; altOf 6, 
177. See also^ Love of country. 

Patronage, the geographical allotment 
of, 6, 214. 

Paul, St., Dante*a referencea to, 4b 
203 n. 

Paul and Virginia, See Bemaidia 
de St. Pierre. 

Peace, felt at twilight, 3, 220 ; Dante 
on, 4, 242 ; not to be purchased by 
tlie wicriflce of principle and plwk^ 
6, ; not the housemate of coward 
ice, 74. 

Pearson, Eliphalet, Prhiclpal of Phil- 
lips Acad., 2, 298. 

Peasants. See Austrian peaaanta; 
Italian peasants. 

Pebbles on the l>each,the leaaondnwB 
from them, 1, 21. 



Peonliaritiea of character leas hidden 
in old times, 1, 95. 

Pedagogue, St., 1, 79. 

Pedantry, of German 18th cent, litera- 
ture, 2, 220 ; Montaigne began the 
crusade against, 221 ; liolds sacred 
the dead shells, 359 ; the dangers of, 
6, 152. 

Peel, Sir Robert, gives Wordsworth a 
pension, 4* 393. 

Pegasus, 1, 220 ; supposed advertise- 
ment for, 196. 

Pelli as a critic of Dante, 4, 164. 

Pendleton, democratic candidate for 
Vice-President in 18C4, 6, 154. 

Penitence, Dryden*8 lines on, 3, 167. 

Penn, William, 3, 218. 

Penobscot River, the west branch, 1, 

Pentameters, rhymed, compared to 
thin ice, 3, 136 n. 

Pepperell, Sir William, 2, 274. 

Pepys, the only sincere diarist in Eng- 
lish, 1, 121 ; his perfect frankness 
and unconsciousness, 2, 201 ; the 
value of his memoirs, 285 ; his 
Diary, 3, 134 n ; also, 1, 260 ; 2, 

on Dryden's Annus Mirabilis, 3, 134 ; 
on the Maiden Queen, 135 n ; on 
the Wild Gallant, 147 ; on Evening 
Love, 148 ; on the Indian Emperor, 
acted at Court, 175 n. 

Pebcival, Jambs Gatbs, Lira and 
Letters of, 2, 14U-161 ; character 
of his poetry, 141 ; comparisons, 
141, 142; his failure to learn that 
the world did not want his poetry, 
142 ; compared with Akenside, 143 ; 
a professor of poetry rather than a 

{>oet, 143 ; his faculty artitlcial, not 
nnate, 144 ; the literary intluences 
to which he was subjected, 144 ; his 
unappeasable dulness, 140 ; his lack 
of systematic training, 146 ; his com- 
plauits of neglected genius, 147, 159 ; 
the times propitious to mediocrity, 
148; hailed by the critics as the 
great American poet, 154; found 
tedious by the public, 155; an ex- 
ample of the too numerous class of 
feeble poets, 158 ; his miscellaneous 
equipment for work, 159 ; his oppor- 
tunities and failures, 160; his at- 
tempt at suicide, 100 ; as a geologist 
and linguist, 161. , 
his Imprecation, 2, 144 ; Mind, 143 ; 
Prometheus, 141. 

Perham, 2, 282. 

Periodical publication, the fashion en- 
courages sensationalism, 2, 82. 

Periphrases, 1, 295 ; 4, 10. 

Perkins, Mr., the painful, 2. 13. 

Persecution, Puritan attitude toward, 
6, 145. 

Persiguy, 2» 276. 

Personality becoming of leaa account, 
5, 131. 

Personification, 3, 354 ; 4. 324 ; alpha- 
betic, 3,96; the natural instinct for, 
6, 104. 

Peru, 2, 273. 

Peter, St., his miraoles in Rome, Ip 
154 ; Southwell*s version of ids 
" Complaint," 253. 

Peter of Abauo, one of the earliest un- 
believers in witchcraft, 2, 381. 

Peter, Hugh, life and execution, %, 
24 ; his character, 25 : his relationn 
to Mrs. Sheffield, 25; Endicott's 
comment on, 27; his coquetting 
with Mrs. Ruth, 27 ; later notices 
of, 28 ; letter desiring an Lidian ser- 
vant, 43. 

Petrarch, a sentimentalist, 1, 100, 
376 ; 2, 253 ; his understanding with 
Death, 254 ; his moral inconsistency, 
255 ; his sonnets compared with 
Michel Angelo's, 256 ; his influence 
on modern literature, 256 ; his gen- 
uine qualities, 256 ; probability of 
Chaucer's meeting with, 3, 294 ; his 
exquisite artifice, 303 ; Byron on hia 
excellence in execution, 4, 42 ; a/«o, 
2. 105, 155; 3, 260; 4, 160. 
Africa, 2, 129 ; Laura, 4, 349. 

Pettigrew, Colonel, 6, 59. 

Peucerus, Gaspar, on lycanthropy, 2, 

Pheidias, 3, 38 n. 

Phi Beta Kappa Society, Emerson's 
oration before, 1, 366. 

Philadelphia convention of 1866, com- 
pared to tlie Irishman's kettle of 
soup, 6, 283 ; compared to a circus, 
285 ; its problem to make a patent 
reconciliation cement from fire and 
gunpowder, 286 ; compared to a ship 
stuck in a mud-bank, 287 ; the Res- 
olutions and Address, 287 ; its real 
principle the power of the Presi- 
dent, 288 ; its constituents, 288 ; at- 
titude toward reconstruction, 301 ; 
the measures advocated, 318. 

Philip, St., cited as a case of corporeal 
deportation, 2, 353. 

Philip IL, the ambassador's answer to, 
2, 108. 

Philip.H, Ambrose, description of ice- 
coated trees, 3, 280 ; his love for na- 
ture, 280. 

Philisterei, the revolt against, 1, 363. 

Philistines, 3, 189. 

Phillips, Edward, his Theatrum Pot- 
tarum reflects Milton's judgments, 
4. 1 ; on true poetry, 2 ; on the use 
of rhyme, 22. 

Phillips, Wendell, of kin to Josiah 
Quincy, 2. 297. 

Phillips Andover Academy, J. Quinoy 
at, 2, 297. 

Philosophical poetry, 6, 112. 



Fhfloflophj, Dftnte on, 4, 183, 200 ; 

symbolized by Beatrice in tlie VUa 

S'uovaj 'JU4. 
PliiueuB, 4, 115. 
PlKfnix, 2, 47. 
Phoiboo, a, 137. 
PluwphuKHcence, at sea, 1, 103 ; 4, 

83 ; veraes ou, 1. 103 ; a dirty scum 

in the daytime, 104. 
PhyaioiU geography aa tlie tenth Mnae, 

a, loS. 
Pickeiitf, OoT., 6, 74. 
Pickemb-amd-Stsaun's Rxbbllion, 6, 

Pickering, Sir Gilbert, 3. lOG. 
Picture galleries, difiicultiea of unin- 

atructed viHitors, 1, 212. 
PicturetMiue, the, its money value in 

a town, 1, 55; often due to the 

Suarrels of the Middle Ages, 172 ; 
arlyle's love of, 2, 02 ; the search 
for, 3, 2('i(); in hlbtorioal composi- 
tion, 4, Oi : 6, 122 ; St. Simon a mas- 
ter of , 4, 05 ; the hints given to the 
imagination, 73 ; in the civiliaation 
of a people, 6, 309. 

Pie-pUmts (rhubarb) of Newman the 
wliitc-washer in Cfambridge, 1, 59. 

Pierce, Franklin, letter on free elec- 
tions, 6, 15r>. 

Piers rloughman. See Langland. 

Piety confounded with duluess, 1, 

Pigsgusset, 1, 14. 

Pike's Peak, 1, 14. 

Pilgrim Fathers compared with the 
Israelites of the Exodus, 2, 1 ; their 
conception of a commonwealth, 75. 

Pilgrim Society diimers, 2, 3. 

Pincio, illumination of St. Peter^s seen 
from, 1, 202. 

Pinckney, William, on slavery, 6, 

Pinckney, Fort, 5, 59. 

Pine-tree on the old New England 
money and flag, 1, G9. 

Pine-trees seen against the twilight 
sky, 1, 34. 

Pinto. See Mendez Pinto. 

Pirates, their cruelty not to be won- 
dered at, 1, 101. 

Pisa, 1, 191. 

Pisani, 4, 119. 

Pitt, 2, 302. 

Plagiarism, 3, 143 ; in literature, 299 ; 
of the poets, 2(>9. 

Plainness of diction, 1, 241 ; in the 
transcendental movement, 3G2. 

Plancus, Consul, 2, 305. 

Plato, Dante's acquaintance with, 4, 
155 ; Dante on, 203 n ; compared 
with Aristotle, 254 ; also, 6, 8, 105. 

Pleasantness, 6, 49. 

Pliny, story of a haunted house, 2, 
3^ ; letter on the eruption of Vesu- 
vius, 6, 241. 

Flotinua, his commomredfh of pUk»' 
ophem, 1, 850. 

Pluck, Carlyle'a idoUtrrof, %, 110. 

Plurals, 4, 01. 

Plutarch, 2.284; 3, 281 ; e, 91 1 on 
allegory, 3, 3G2. 

Poem, compued to a painted window, 
3, 07 ; compared to theappleaof tbo 
Hesperides, 4, 206. 

Poet, makes people see what everybody 
can look at, 1, 4; fills langa»ffo 
again with the bfe which it lias loi^ 
IM ; the power of his hitellect over 
his feeling, 231 ; represents the yoath 
of each new generation, 244; not 
exempt from the logic of life and 
circumstance, a, 157 ; Victor Hiwo*o 
idea of his function, 157 ; his lan- 
guage, 3, 7 ; his re-discoveries of the 
world, 04 ; Dryden on the produofe 
of his later years, 112 ; compared to 
a silkworm, 900; his function to 
make the familiar novel, 885 ; Us 
creations contain more than be puts 
into them, 90 ; the structural faculty 
necessary to, 324 ; must keep alivo 
traditions of the pure, the ho^, 
and the beautiful, 4, 48; question 
whether Pope be a great poet, 67 { 
two standaj^s for the judgment of, 
298 ; his office to be a Voice, 867 ; 
his function, 413 ; his view M hls- 
torj', B, 123. 

Poets, modem poets, 2, 82; their 
characteristics to be recognised In 
their earliest works, 84 ; new portw, 
120, 121; improve after forty, ao- 
cording to Dryden, 3, 127 ; charao- 
ter of their debt to their predeceo- 
sors, 299 ; those who are good <mlT 
for spurts, 350 ; collections of, 4» 
273 ; futility of critical essays upon, 

Poets, great, Schiller on, 2, 111 ; ex- 
tremely rare, 3, 1 ; all in a seme 
provincial, 4| 235 ; the happiness of, 
297 ; their office, 356 : Wordsworth 
on the province of, 379 ; the escqul- 
site sensibility of, 413 ; their faiflnite 
variety of topic, 6, 8. 

Poetic expression, 1, 246 ; 8, 9. 

Poetic form, a, 136. 

Poetic language, 3, 9 ; its balance of 
proportions, 15. 

Poetical justice, 6, 127. 

Poetry, the " fi|>asmodlo '* aohool, 1, 
280; good poetry more fLerctij re* 
sented than bad morals, 226 ; Gar- 
lyle's contempt for, 2, 90 ; itsfroper 
object ideal, 99 ; conditions necee* 
sary for, 120 ; the physically intenae 
school, 122 ; maidenly reserve of its 
higher forms, 123; what is de- 
manded in, in a verse-writing gen- 
eration, 140; life ito only snbjeot, 
160; a rooted discosttent ondwfUis 



it, 150; influence of democracy 
upon, 151 ; introspection and feeble- 
ness of modem poetry, 158 ; not to 
be pursued as a profession, 193; 
character of profound poetry, 252 ; 
the action of the imagination in, 
318 ; the quality of vividness of ex- 
pression in, 3, 31 ; great poets and 
secondary intellects distinguished, 
37 ; schools of poetry, 38 ; the office 
of language in, 46 ; the supreme func- 
tion of, 171 n ; the question of pla- 
giarism in, 299 ; Romanic tendency 
to the scientific treatment of, 308 ; 
does not spring from the Anglo- 
Saxon nature, 318 ; not made from 
the imderstanding, 319; the good 
fortune of early poets, 335 ; artifice 
unsatisfactory, 4, 8 ; its decline un- 
der French iufiuence, 21 ; imcon- 
ventionality essential, 22 ; influence 
of character in, 2G1 ; its true vital- 
ity, 267 ; the quality of nationality 
in, 270 ; description in, 272 ; its first 
duty to be delightful, 273 ; the con- 
ception of, in England, in 16th cen- 
tury, 299 ; impoitance of diction in, 
308 ; the sensuous and the sensual 
in, 317 ; value of abundance in, 328 ; 
the question of matter and form, 
357; the difference between Fact 
and Truth, 384 ; instructs not by 
precept, but by suggestion, 6, 110 ; 
alsOf 3, 128. See also^ American, 
Anglo-Norman, Anglo-Saxon, Eng- 
lish, French, German, Provengsd, 
Romance, Scotch, Teutonic poetry ; 
— cUsOy Ballad poetry; Descriptive 
poetry ; Dramatic poetry ; Epic poe- 
try ; Moral poetry ; Narrative poe- 
try ; Pastoral poetry ; Philosophical 
poetry; Religious poetry; Roman- 
tic poetry ; Sacred poetry ; Sonnet ; 
Troubadours; Trouv6res. 
Emerson's criticism of, 1, 354 ; Ba- 
con's definition of, 2, 156; Lessing 
on the cultivation of, 196 ; Dryden 
on the end and character of, 3. 155 ; 
Fauriel on prosaic passages in, 162 n ; 
Edw. Phillips on, 4, 2 ; Voltaire 
makes Difficulty a tenth Muse, 8; 
Waller on care in writing, 14 ; Spen- 
ser's conception of, 306; Words- 
worth's theories of, 382, 398, 406 ; 
Sir John Harrington on, 409. 

Poetry and prose, 18th century ideas 
of their relation, 1, 246 ; the dis- 
tinction between them, 2, 196, 226 ; 
4* 330 ; danger of mixing them, 3, 
144 ; Coleridge's distinction, 4. 

Poggetto, Cardinal, 4, 141. 

Police in Rome, 1, 216. 

Polish, Waller on, 4, 14. 

Political dogmas, their tendency to 
become dead formulas, 6, 36. 

Political economy, humuiity its most 
important element, 6, 35 ; value of 
the study, 92 ; study of, 177. 

Political eloquence, American, 6, 49, 

Political evils, the cure of, 3, 236. 

Political machinery, 6, 1^. 

Political meetings, 6, 182. 

Political office, the qualifications for, 

Political parties, 6, 29 ; blind to vicious 
methods employed for their advan- 
tage, 200. See alsOy Party govern- 

Political speculations, possible value 
of, 3, 198. 

Political thinker, Burke and Milton, 
4, 81 ; effect of abstract ideas on, 

Political wisdom of Burke, 2, 234. 

Politicians, Steele on, 3, 284. Politi- 
cians and statesmen, 4, 179; not 
leaders but followers of public sen- 
timent, 6, 75 ; the study of political 
economy recommended to, 6, 183; 
object to the scholar in politics, 
190; call learned men pedants and 
doctrinaires, 193; required by the 
system of party government, 212; 
engaged with the local eddies of 
prejudice, 220. See cUso, States- 

Politics, subordinate to poetry, 4, 
373 ; its deepest lesson taught by a 
common danger, 6, 46 ; difficulty of 
forecasting events, 125 ; men taking 
the place of principles, 132; the 
qualities necessary for success in 
state-craft, 183 ; a rigid doctrinaire 
an unsafe politician, 189 ; success 
obtained by skill in taking advan- 
tage of circumstances, 189 ; a sci- 
ence demanding serious application, 
193; trifling considerations to be 
taken into account, 196 ; loyalty to 
great ends, not obstinacy in preju- 
dice demanded, 196 ; importance of 
public opinion, 199; 6, 34; cause 
and effect proportionate, 6, 204 ; the 
sense of personal wrong as an in- 
terpreter of abstract principles, 205 ; 
equality not conferred by man, 237 ; 
the danger of accepting an easy ex- 
pedient at the sacrifice of a diffi- 
cult justice, 238 ; a disproportionate 
value set upon consistency, 266 ; na- 
tional opinions move slowly, 271 ; 
the secret of permanent lesidership 
to know how to be moderate, 271 ; 
homogeneousness of laws and insti- 
tutions necessary to strength, 281 ; 
the idea of government precedes 
that of liberty, 282 ; party managers, 
286; parties as the ladders of am- 
bitious men, 293 ; politicians and 
ftatesmen, 294 ; advantages ol a bold 



policy, SIR; thr in^at rHrr«»nt of a 
natidu'H lite, :ns; the imbleiieiui of 
tlif m-ieii(*e, 'MS ; no trick of iK>r|>et- 
uol motion in, 6, V!i) ; Fn*noli fulliu'y 
in reftonl to now fi^ovpnunents, 'JtJ ; 
the effect of purty orguniziitlon, *il) ; 
the power of nent intent in, 39 ; the 
hariuful aide of ((ood nature in, U7 ; 
the growing aversion to, 17G ; the 
practice of nominating men without 
a ** record," 1H4; acts of official 
courage rare, but sometimes conta- 
gious, 185 ; a moderated and con- 
trolIe<1 enthusiasm the most potent 
of motive forces, ISO. 
Politics, The place of the Ikdepem- 
DBNT IS : address. April V,i, 188S, 6, 
1*J0-'J*J1 ; tlio sclioliir in politics 
sneered at, UK) ; Bac'on on the prac- 
tical ]H>liticiaii and the eui])iric phy- 
sician, VJ2; defined as the art of 
natiunul housekeeping, VXt ; l)ecome 
statesmanship when thoy reach a 
liigher level, llHi ; the tricks of man- 
agiMiient su))er8eding the science of 
government, VJ8 ; the importance of 
mere manhood develoi>ed in the 
American Coloniiw, 205 : the prmluc- 
tiun of great men the chief duty of 
a nation, 'J(H.) ; tlie place of politics 
in a nutioii^H life, 1!1U. ISee also^ Au- 
tocracy ; Cities ; Civil s(>rvic<' ; Cliuis 
legislation ; Communism ; Compro- 
mise ; Cunservatixm ; ])(>mocrncy ; 
Diplomacy ; Discussion ; Kquality ; 
Freedom ; Government ; Indepen- 
dent; Statesmanship. 

Polk, James K., 3, '^Tu. 

Pollard, Kdw. A., Souihtm History 
of the War contrasted with Gree- 
ley's A merican Conflict, 5, 132 ; its 
style, 13.'} ; its picture of the Yan- 
kees, 133 ; on the causes of the war, 
134 ; his democratic principles, 134 ; 
quote<l, 2.52. 

Pollen, 1, aw;. 

Polo, Marco, 1, 111 ; 4, 105. 

Polybius, 3, 105 ; Drydeu*s judgment 
of, 113 n. 

Pomegranate-seeds of the Arabian 
story compared to the points of an 
opponent's argument, 1, 51. 

Pomeroy, General, 6, 70. 

Pompeii, the Greek artistic nature dis- 
playeil at, 1, 48. 

Pope, Roman, his relations to the peo- 
ple, 1, 200; the mockery of his 
Eastei benediction, 2(H ; the feeling 
of the Italians toward him, 205; 
Dante on his supremacy, 4, 153; 
his election not free from {Mission 
and intrigue, 6, 232. 

Pope, Alexander, 4, 1-57 ; his wide- 
spread fame at the time of his death, 
5; the general discontent with his 
•ohool, 6 ; its analogy with the cult- 

M school of the 10th oent, 9; It 
degenerates Into a mob of manner- 
ists, 27 ; his poetry gives a faithful 
picture of the society of his day, 10 ; 
circumstances which prepured the 
w^ for its popularity, 11 ; French 
influence on English literature, 11, 
1(>, 20; Pope tlie poet of conven- 
tional life, 25; the author's early 
dislike for him, 20 ; what he repre- 
iients in literature, 20; Words- 
worth's relation to him, 27 ; Pope's 
one perfect work marks his gemos, 
27 ; Ids earliest productions marked 
by sense and discretion and facility 
of expression, 28 ; their affectation 
of sentiment, 28 ; his terseness and 
discretion, 31 ; Pope the true poet 
of society, 31 ; the Rope of the Lock 
analyzed, 31 ; the Essay on Man^ 30 ; 
his accuracy, of exprrssion rather 
than of thou|i[ht, 37, 50 ; his confused 
logic, 39 ; his precision of Uiought 
no match for the fluency of nla 
verse, 42 ; his execution over-praised, 
42 ; instances of confused or unsult 
able imagery, 43 ; tempted by epi- 
gram or rhyme to false statement, 
44 ; his Moral Essays and Satires, 44 ; 
liis accuracy in personal description, 
40 ; his ideals of women, 40 ; had a 
sense of the neat rather than <A the 
beautiful, 48 ; the Dunciady 48 ; his 
f an< y that of a wit rather than of a 
poet, 49 ; his personal character, 40 ; 
the discomforting consciousness of 
the public shown by his letters, 60 ; 
his relations to Lady Mary Wortley 
Montagu, 51 ; his meanness displayed 
in his correspondence with Aaron 
Hill, 52 ; his relations to Addison, 
52 ; his letter to Lord Burlington 
excellent, 53 ; the contravene over 
his poetry, 53 ; his more ambitious 
works defined as careless thinking 
carefully versified, 60; his verse 
lacking in song, 60 ; to be rankekl 
with Voltaire, 57 ; reasons for con- 
sidering him a great poet, 67 ; com- 
pared with Dryden, 3, 114, 177, 184, 
190 ; 4, 57 ; a parvenu^ 3, 179 ; his 
notion of gentUity, 188 n ; his verse 
not uniform in elisions, S47; aUo, 
181,300; 4,414. 

on Dryden, 3, 173, 188 ; on Addison, 
4, 45 ; on Milton, 110 ; on Spenser, 

Voltaire on, 4, 0; Johnson on, 49, 
5i ; Warton on, 53 ; Bowles om Mj 
Campbell on, 64 ; Lessing cm, o(B. 

Correspondence f its affected indiffer- 
ence to the world, 4, 28 ; Dunciadt 
; filthy and undiscriminating, 48 ; 
Essay on Criticism y 30; Euay im 
Man acceptable to men of all shades 
of opinion, 30; its absu r dl t iea, 87 ; 



its doctrines from Hobbes and Spi- 
noza, 37; Bolingbrokeitsinspiratiou, 
88 ; Pope aware of its dangerous 

Srinciples, 38 ; its confusion of logic, 
9 ; lacks etVAer clearness of thought 
or sincerity, 42 ; — Horner^ %, 297 ; 3, 
275 ; Broome's part in, 1, 207 ; Cole- 
ridge on, 287; — Moral Essays, 4, 
44 ; — On the Death of Mrs. Tern pest, 
29 ; — Pastorals^ 3, 3G1 ; 4, 28 ; — 
Jtape of the Lock^ 5G ; unmatched for 
pure entertainment, 27 ; analyzed, 
31 ; the machinery of the Sylphs, 
32, 33 ; the mock-heroic treatment, 
32 ; its satiric wit, 34 ; its pleasing 
harmony, 34 ; its perfect form, 3G ; 
compared with Drayton's Nymphi- 
dia, 49 ; — Satires, 3, 177 ; full of wit 
and epigram, 4, 44; the inevitable 
antitheses, 46 ; — Timon, Coleridge 
on, 3, 179 n ; — Windsor Forest, 4, 29. 
Pope, Gen., 5, 95. 
Popkin, Professor, reminiscences of, 

1, 91 ; 6, 152. 
Populacity, 5| 294. 

Popular imagination, homeliness of, 6, 

Popular prejtidice, the element of 

truth in, 3 315. 
Popularity, 4, 378 ; Carlyle on the 

curse of, 2, 107 ; of Frederick the 

Great, 112. 
Popularity, literary, what it implies, 

2, 78 ; the power of entertaining its 
first element, 79. 

Pork, salt, eaten with a relish in the 

woods, 1, 26 ; Uncle Zeb's theory of, 

Porter's flip, 1, 88; Pres. Eirkland 

tries it, 8C. 
Portici, 1, 151. 
Portinari, Beatrice. See Dante — 

Porto Ferrajo, 1, 167. 
Portuguese men-of-war, 1, 102. 
Posing, the instinct of southern races 

for, 2, 269. 
Possession, demoniac, the natural 

tendency toward, 2, 370 ; contagious 

in convents and elsewhere, 371. 
Posterity forgets those who think 

most of it, 1, 122. 
Poussin, Gaspar, 3, 261. 
Poverty a crime in Pope's Dunciad, 4, 

Powell, Mary, Masson on her probable 

appearance, 4, 68. 
Power, character of those who have 

held it, 1, 170. 
Powers, Hiram, 3, 282. 
Practical men, 4, 313 ; 6, 193. 
Practicality of Emerson, 1, 350. 
Praise when over-hasty apt to become 

satire, 6, 174. 
Prayer, Prea. Kirkland's manner, 1, 

Prayer-miU, image of, applied to Car-r 
lyle's later writings, 2, 96. 

Precedent, its value, 6, 194. 

Precision of thought and language, 6, 

Preeminence, the satisfaction in, 3, 

Prefaces, Swift on, 3, 134. 

Prejudices, 6, 119 ; 6, 96. 

Pre-Raphaelite, abuse of the term, 1, 

Pre-Raphaelite art, Anglo - Saxon's 
lack of appreciation of, 1, 185. 

Prerogative, 2, 4. 

Presbyterian Church recommended 
the abolition of slavery in 1787, 6. 

Presbyterians in England in 1658, 2, 

Presbyterianism, Scotch, Carlyle the 
herald of its decease, 1, 364 ; and 
the embodiment of its spirit, 365. 

Prescriptions, curious ones sent by Sir 
K. Digby to J. Winthrop, Jr., 2, 

Presence of mind and presence of 
speech, 2, 311. 

President, his humble origin of no Im- 
portance, but his present character, 
6y 264 ; should be the highest type 
of American, 265 ; his position in or- 
dinary times different from what it 
was during the war, 268, 274 ; must 
not take soitional ground, 274. 

Pkbsident, Thk, on thb stump, 6, 264- 
282. See Johnson, Andrew. 

Press, unmuzzled in Holland, 3, 234. 
See also, J )urnalism ; Newspapers. 

Preville, anecdote of his counterfeit- 
ing drunkenness, 2, 103. 

Priapus, 4, 207 n. 

Pride of birth, 6, 264. See also^ An- 

Priests, popular opinion of, in Italy, 
1, 143 ; always to be found in a dil- 
igence, 150 ; bitter feeling of % Ro- 
man driver against, 154. 

Priestcraft, 2, 4. 

Priestley, Dr., 2, 295 ; 6, 19. 

Primrose, Mr., 1, 317. 

Printers' blimders. See Misprints. 

Printing, invention of, its effect, 3, 4. 

Prison at Palestrina, like English jails 
of Queen Elizabeth's time, 1, 159. 

Private judgment, 6, 10 ; in the opin- 
ion of the Puritans, 2, 10. 

Privileges, 6, 29. 

Probables, the casuists* doctrine of, 4, 

Professions, the divisions between, 
stricter in modern times, 2, 285. 

Progress, its effect on temperaments 
which love what is permanent. 1, 
85 ; depends on things of the mind, 
not on railways and telegraphs, 6» 



Proof-reftding In Bhaketpeare'i time, 

Proper names, M ilton*8 une of, 4, 1(V>. 

Property, the rights of, not threatened 
by Democracy, 6, '-T ; 6, 11 ; a Fa- 
tlier of the Church called it theft, 
14 ; Its security in America, 26 ; its 
part in bearing the burdens of the 
state, 2G. 

Property in slaves, 6, 28. 

Prophecy, Maraon^s treatment of; 4, 
72 ; difficult iett of, in history and pol- 
itics, 6, 125. 

Prophets, events careless of the repu- 
tations of, 6, 10. 

Prophets, Hebrew, character of their 
prone, 1, '2ii^ ; Dante compared to, 
4, H5«, 17C. 

Prophet's breeches, Prof. P.'s toga 
conipare<1 to, 1, 93. 

Propriety in diction, 3, 125. 

ProHaic type of mind, its danger, 3, 

Pruse and poetry. See Poetry and 

ProiKMly. See Alexandrines; Blank 
verso ; Couplets ; EliHions ; Rhyme ; 
Vemifioation ; alsOf English, French, 
Italian proHo^Iy. 

ProHpero, 3, 2tl. 

Protection, 6, 31 ; applied to the 
weather, 6, 12 ; applied to foreign 
experience, 1!>1 ; a policy of roboing 
Peter to pay Paul, 21 G ; the logical 
extension of the system, 217 ; ity 
effectA, 217 ; not the cause of our 
material prosperity, 218 ; the policy 
borrowed from the mediaeval guilds, 

Protestantism, lacking in materials 
for the imagination, 1, 195 ; has 
blundered in trusting to the intel- 
lect alone, 190 ; no longer protests, 
301 ; De Maistre's charge against, 2, 
G; Drydeu's opinion of, 3, 179 n, 

Protestantism in politics, 3, 245. 

Proudhon, 6, 14. 

Provence, compared to a morning sky 
of early summer, 3, 803 ; absence of 
national life in, 307. 

Provencal lang^uage, became purely 
Uterary, and so dead, 3, 307 ; effect 
of its Roman derivation on litera- 
ture, 308. 

Provengal poetry, its interest as a fore- 
runner, 3, 302 ; ito artificiality, 303, 
306, 308 ; remained a provincial lit- 
erature, 304; its refined formality 
the legacy of Gallo-Roman culture, 
305; its influence, :{08; Dante fa- 
miliar with, 4, 212 n. See cUso^ 

Proverbs, 6, IGl. 

Providence, Jerome's belief In its lim- 
itation, 1, 41 ; Carlyle's impatience 

with the ways of, 2, 03 ; Cnrlyle's 
cudgel theory of, 106 ; Dryden on, 
135 ; its operation in history, 6, 127. 
' Provincialibm , contains the germ of na- 
' tionality, 2, 279 ; agreeame when it 
has a flavor of its own, 288 ; In liter- 
ature, 3, 304 ; 6, 115; alto, 3, 240 ; 
4, 12. 

ProvinciallBm of Belf, 1, 376. 

Prudence, Dante on, 4* 240. 

Prussian army, the national Instinot 
in, 2, 100. 

Prjnme, William, his inscrlptioos on 
the ^-alls of the Tower, 2, 71. 

Pseudo-classicism, its two forms. %, 
134 ; the growing distaste for, 4, 8. 

Public, the, a dear old domestic bird, 
6, M. 

Public debt, the only one abaolntely 
sure of payment, 3, 245. 

Public landH, a fair price to be paid 
for, B, 227. 

Public libraries. See Libraries, pub> 

Public men, 2, 311. 

Public opinion, effect on the Yankee, 
1, 77 ; escape from its tyranny in 
It.ily, 124 ; its power, 2, 09 ; its effi- 
ciency in a democracv, 6, 182 ; its 
importance, 6, 34 ; influence of the 
telegraph upon, 175 ; also, 2, 886 ; 
6, 129. 

Public school has done for imagina- 
tion, 1, 107. 

Public speaking, difficulties of, at the 
j present day, 6. 8. 
I Public spirit of the founders of Maaaa- 
ohusettH, 6, 147. 

Piirkler-Muskau on England, 3, 231. 

Puff, Mr.. 4, 22. 

Puns, 3, 53. 

Puncii, attempts at Yankeeismfl, 2, 

Punch's theatre, Hamon*s picture of, 
Carlyle's histories comiwred to, 2, 

Punishments in Dante and inthe Wi^ 
dom of Solomon, 4, 212 n. 

Puppet-show, the world a, in Carlyle*e 
hit^tories, 2, 104. 

Puritan, cares nothing for art, 1, 
7G ; compared with the Cavalier, %, 

Puritan preachers, 2, 13. 

Puritan temper Judaued by the Bkig- 
lish Bible, 4, 83. 

Puritans, English, their change npon 
coming into power, 2, 6 ; the bnild- 
ers of America, 13 ; Lecky on their 
attitude toward witchcraft, 877 n. 

Puritans, of New England, the modem 
charge that they were fanatics, 2, 
G ; different in their conditions from 
the Puritans in England, 8 ; enthu- 
siasts but not fanatics, 9; men of 
business, 9, 72 ; tlieir conoqittan of 



the state, 10, 75 ; their dealings with 
sectaries, 10 ; their narrowness and 
gloominess, 13 ; the reality of their 
political ideas, 13 ; their view of 
education, 18 ; in what respect they 
were intolerant, 18 ; not men '* be- 
fore their time," 19 ; as seen in the 
♦* Winthrop Papers," 21 ; their de- 
clme prophesied by Williams, 72 ; 
cause of their narrowness, 73 ; their 
purpose to clear away abuses, 75; 
their conversion of the Indians, 3, 
219; their object and their spirit, 
246 ; their feeling in founding Har- 
vard College, 6, 140; justly com- 
memorated by their descendants, 
141 ; the noble character and quality 
of the first settlers, 144 ; narrow- 
ness and formalism of the second 
f[eneration, 145. See also, New Eug- 

Puritanism, tried to drive out nature 
with a pitchfork, 1, 78 ; compared 
to a ship inwardly on fire, 78 ; Em- 
erson the herald of its decease, 
3C4, and the embodiment of its 
spirit, 365 ; Hawthorne the unwill- 
ing poet of the Puritanism of the 
past, 365; its spirit seeking a new 
outlet in Transcendentalism, 3()7 ; 
the embodiment of Christian truth, 
2, 2 ; not responsible for the witch- 
craft delusion in New England, 10 ; 
the decline of, 12 ; laid the egg of 
Democracy, 13 ; traced in American 
characteristics, 14 ; its earnestness, 
67 ; a religion of Fear rather than 
Love, 67 ; became an empty formal- 
ism, 74 ; its attitude toward witch- 
craft, 377 ; anxious for evidence of 
the supernatural, 377 ; its character 
shown in the victims of the Salem 
witchcraft, 394 ; its strength and 
weakness, 4, 116 ; the prose of Bun- 
yan and the verse of Milton its great 
monuments, 117 ; Spenser's sympa- 
thy with its more generous side, 
314 ; its different shades, 314 n ; 
also, 3, 4. 

Puseyism, a hint that Protestantism 
has blundered, 1, 196. 

Putnam, Anne, Jr., one of the pos- 
sessed girls in Salem, 2, 391. 

Puttenham on correct English, 3, 8. 

Pyrrhus, elephants of, German learn- 
ing compared to, 2, 166. 

Pythagoras, 1, 379. 

Quaker grammar, 2, 64. 

Quakers, care nothing for art, 1, 76 ; 
Coddington sends a defence of, to J. 
Winthrop, Jr., 2, 64; on the mani- 
festation of God's wrath at the exe- 
cution of Robinson and Stevenson, 
66 ; Puritan dealings with, not to be 
lightly judged, 67. 

Quarles, his Enchiridion reprinted in 
the " Library of Old Authors," 1, 
254 ; examples of his style, 4, 21. 

Quarrels, Italian, anecdotes of, 1, 166f 

Quatrains, Dryden on, 3, 135. 

Quibbles in words, 3, 53. 

Quincy, Edmund, his life of his father, 

QviNCY, JosiAH, a great public char- 
acter, 2, 272-312; his character 
trained under democracy, 287 ; his 

Sublic activity, 288, 292 ; an antique 
Ionian, 288 ; the Boston of his early 
life, 289 ; the many changes during 
his lifetime, 291 ; his family, 291 ; 
his life beautiful and fortunate, 292 ; 
Edmund Quincy's Life of, 293 ; his 
account of his motlier, 296 ; his ear- 
ly education, 297; at college, 299; 
his marriage, 299; his public life, 
300 ; his thoroughness and earnest- 
ness, 301 ; declines a duel, 302 ; op- 
poses the Louisiana purchase, 302 ; 
his boldness in speech, 302 ; Mayor 
of Boston, 303; arrested for fast 
driving, 305 ; President of Harvard 
College, 305; his endearing pecu- 
liarities, 306 ; his dry humor, 306 ; 
his kindness and considerateness, 
306 ; his esorit de corps, 307 ; his 
literaiy productions, SCrT ; his indus- 
try, 308 ; his old age, 308 ; his re- 
marks on death, 3C^ ; the value of 
his life, 309, 311 ; anecdote of his 
courtesy, 310; a man of quality, 
310 ; never forfeited public respect, 
311 ; lines of Dryden's applied to^ 3^ 
172 ; on college life, 6, 163. 

Quincy, Mrs. Josiah, 2, 299. 

Quincy, Josiah, Jr., 2, 291, 296. 

Quinquina. See CLachona. 

Quintilian on Seneca, 3, 164. 

Quixote, Don, See Cervantes. 

Quotations, from the classics, the 
charm of, 2, 129 ; Dryden's inaccu- 
racy in using, 3, 124. 

R. = Reemie, the barber. 

R. — , Mr., of W. = Mr. Ripley, of 

R. M. = Royall Morse. 
Rabelais, his humor, 1, 278; 2, 90; 

also, 3, 362. 
Rachel and Leah, 1, 374. 
Racine, 3, 65; Andromaque, 147 n; 

Bajazet, Dryden on, 160 ; Berenice, 

Voltaire on, 160. 
Rail-riding, riding at Tivoli compared 

to, 1, las. 

Railroad journey, effects of, 1, 6. 
Railroads, American, 2, 71. 
Railroads, Italian, how planned and 

built, 1, 150. 
Rain, signs of, 1, 16, 20 ; ride to 8o- 

biaco in, 179. 



Rainbow, Mcrom the watcrfmll at ^ro- 
li, 1, 128 ; VauRlimn on. 3. 222. 

R.iiuy day iudoorii at Kinco, Blaine, 

RoleiRh, Sir Walter, 2, 22 : 3, 10 ; on 
writing modern biiitory, 4, 31Un; 
6, CK2. 

Ranibuldl, Benvenuto. See Benre- 

Rainier, Karl Wilhelm, 2, 107; on 
Leaaing'n dangeroiiH way of speak- 
ing Ills opiuiuu, 100; Forater on, 
200 n. 

R:inuuiy, Allan, 2, 220. 

Ran<luli>h, Robert. 1, 308. 

Rantoul, Kobert, 6, l^ 

Raphael, 3, ii('>. 

Rjit^pberrieH the solace of the pedes- 
trian, 3, 201. 

Riiv(>uita, I>ante at, 4, IS.*), 136. 

Raymond, Mr., at the Philadelphia 
convi'ntion, 6, 2S(). 

Raynouard*8 Jjexique roman cited, 1, 

Reaction, B, 12G, 178. 

Read in);, the habit tyrannical, 1, 21 ; 
lack of, in Koine, 15G; browsing, 2, 
101 ; the world of thought opi*no(l 
to us by, 6, 84; the choice of, 85: 
illustrated by the Wallachian legend 
of Bukhla, S5 ; its influence on char- 
acter, 8C> ; the way to read, 86 ; des- 
ultory reading unprofitable, SO; 
harmfulness of reading newspaper 
gossip, 88 ; attention to the supreme 
books or to one great author recom- 
mended, 80 ; deuultory reading the 
only way in which time may be 
profitably wasted, 80 ; Bacon on the 
method and puriwse of, 90 ; value 
of translations of foreign literature, 
92. See aho^ Books. 

Ready-made Ago, the, 1, 39. 

Roady-made clothes, reason of the 
demand for, 1, 30. 

Real, the, distinguished from the act- 
ual, 6, 81. 

Real Presence typifies the secret of 
the power of the Roman Church, 1, 

Real property, 6, 80. 

Realism in Dante, 4, 161. 

Realistic novel invented by Fielding, 

Realistic school, imaginative creations 
preferred to, 6, 128. 

Reality, Carlvie's loyalty to, 2, 118. 

Reason, its development tlie highest 
use of our experience, 2, 110 ; a fin- 
ger-post which points where we 
choose to turn it, 3, 105 ; Dante on, 
4, 220 ; typified by Virgil in the 
DiHna Commedia^ 221. 

Rebellion, 6, 81, 203; to be crushed 
promptly, 85 ; the right of, 8.'>. 


■BQimcn, 6, 118-162. For detafla, 
tee American Civil War. 

RebelUwi Hreord. See Moore, Frank. 
I Rbcohstruction, 6. 210-:^ ; our firat 
! duty iu resitect to, that democracT 
I receive no detriment, 217; a nni- 
fonu rule not likely to be suitable 
for all cases, 217 ; the problem of 
the negro, 223 ; conflBcation of prop- 
erty unwhie, 226 ; the Southern pop- 
ulation to be encouraged to become 
landholders, 227 ; the freedmen to 
be ma<1e voters, 228, 237, 260, 280, 
303, 311 ; their inherent right to the 
suffrage in a democracy, 230; the 
proposition to settle the uegroea in 
a separate district unwise, 231 ; <m 
certain confused ideas in regard to 
the position of the Southern States, 
236, 258 ; our right to exact indem- 
nity for the past and security for 
the future, 236, 256, 280, 308, 316; 
the terms of readmissiou to be defi- 
nitely settled beforehand, 237 ; tem- 
porary expedients to be discarded 
in favor of an enduring policy, 238 ; 
the demands of New England with 
regard to, 242 ; the States to be ad- 
mitted for the first time to a real 
union, 258 ; no hasty compromise 
to be adopted, 263; its baaia 
changed by the issue of the war, 
300 ; the terms imposed not harsh, 
3*22; the conditions of the franchise 
not interfered with, 323. See alto. 
United States in 1865 and 1866. 

Reduplication of sense, instances from 
the Greek, Shakespeare, and Milton, 

Reed, Professor, editor of Worde- 
worth's Meinoirt^ 4, 388 n. 

Reed, of Apollo, and of Pan, 4, 408. 

Roeniie, the Cambridge barber, 1, CI. 

Reeves, 3, 62. 

Refinement, its true character, 6, 62. 

Refiections in the water, 1, SO; aft 
sunset, 34. 

Reformation, its different staffea, 3^ 
4 ; its effect on England, % 293 ; 
the germ of political and social rer- 
olution, 6, 14. 

Reformers, of the transcendental 
movement, 1, 363; Don Qvixole a 
satire upon doctrinaire reformers, 
6, 123; the movement of reforms 
seems slow to, 215 ; need to taJce 
long views, 215 ; aho^4e, 238 ; 6, 1H9. 

Rehearsnly The. See Villiers. 

Reimanis, Elise, Lessing's letters to, 
2, 209, 213. 

Religion, Dante on, 4, 206; Word»> 
worth's attitude toward. 6, 108 ; 
the insthict to fashion Cfod in the 
image of man, 104. 

Religious instinct of the Anglo-Saxosu 



Religious poetry, wretched quality of 

much that is so called, 1, 253. 
Religious sentiment, 2, 265. 
Rembrandt, 3, 233. 
Rembrandt groups in the Cambridge- 
port imi-yards, 1, 70. 
Reminiscences of great men, scantiness 
of, 1, 74. 

Renaissance, 4, 266 ; Keats a modem 
example of, 1, 244. 

Renan ou tlie development of lan- 
guage, 3, 184 n. 

Repeating verses, a little girPs, 1, 

Repetition, in public speaking, 6, 9 ; 
wearisome and profitless, ICMO. 

Repose of Keats's poetry, 1, 246. 

Reprinting worthless books, 1, 303. 

Reprints, of old books, 1, 251, 318; 
value of literalness in, 263, 272. 

Republican party, its purpose and po- 
sition in 1860, 6, 35 ; its strengtii in 
a moral aversion to slavery, 36 ; its 
object to hem slavery in, not to 
abolish it, 42; the only truly con- 
servative party, 43 ; forbearance and 
moderation required on the estab- 
lishment of peace, 233 ; Seward's re- 
lations to, 294 ; its policy inspired 
by the people themselves, not by 
leaders, 317 ; the attempt to stir up 
and utilize the passions of the War, 
6, 211. 

Repudiation, 3, 242. 

Reputation, insecurity and importance 
of, 1, 227. 

Resinous perfume of the forest, 1, 31 . 

Responsibility, freedom from, felt in 
Italy, 1, 124 ; personal, 6, 129. 

Restoration of buildings, constructive 
criticism compared to, 6, 121. 

Restraint, the hotbed of license, 3, 

Resurrection-men of literature, 1, 303. 

Retribution, Dante's ideas of, 4, 177 ; 
examples of, eagerly recognized, 6, 

Retrospective Review^ 1, 248. 

Reuclilin, 1, 364 ; his Latin style, 2, 

Revelation, Dante on, 4, 220. 

Revery, awakening from, 3, 222 ; com- 
pared to fish in a stream, 4, 334. 

Revival of letters, 4, 266. 

Revivals, 4, 256. 

Revolution, American. See American 

Revolutions, the Saxon success in 
effecting, 3, 319 ; said never to go 
backward, 6, 84; moderation in 
times of, 172. 

Revolutionists, foreign, connected 
with tlie transcendental movement, 
1, 363. 

Revue des Deux Mondes^ its accounts 
of American society, 3, 241. 

Rhetoric, its laws, 3, 31. See cUeo, 

Rhetoric and literature distinguished, 

Rhett, Robert, 6, 66. 
Rliodes, Hugh, on domestic serrants, 

2, 46. 
Rliyme, in the French drama, 3, 158 ; 
in Guwer, 329, 336 ; Milton's use of, 
4 97. 

Dryden on, 3, 109, 135, 138, 154, 155, 
168 ; PhiUips on, 4, 22 ; Waller on 
its necessity in tragedy, 22 ; Milton 
ou, 115. 
Rhyme-wraiths, 4, 97. 
Riiymsters, Jonson on, 3, 156. 
Ricii, Mrs., her appearance, 1, 136. 
Rich men, tlie possibilities of, imag. 
ined, 1, 84: in America, 6, 96; 
libraries and universities foimded 
by, 191. 
Ricliard, Duke of Normandy, arbitra- 
tor in a case between the Devil and 
an Angel, 2, 368. 
Richardson, Fielding's opinion of, 6, 

Richelieu, 1, 25. 

Riches, tlie popular measure of sue* 
cess, 6, 173 ; their use and their 
danger, 173. See also^ Wealth. 
Richier, Voltaire's secretary, 2, 187. 
Ricliter, his humor, 1, 278; 2, 165, 
170 ; his influence on Carlyle, 88 ; 
his sentiment, 165; influenced by 
Cervantes, 6, 135 ; a/«o, 2, 187. 
Ridicule, especially unpleasant in Eng- 
land, 1, 226; sensitiveness to, fos- 
tered by provincialism, 4, 12. 
Riding, Spenser on, 4, 351. 
Right, the, essential antiquity of, 6, 

Riglits of Man and the wrongs of men, 

Righteousness, the theme of Dante, 

Rigoux, Maitre, name of the Devil in 

De la Rue's confession, 2, 335. 
Rilievo, the bridge between sculpture 

and painting, 4, 119 n. 
Rimbault, Dr., editor of Overbury's 

works, 1, 255. 
Ripheus in the Divine Comedy, 4. 
250. ^ 

Ripley, Mr., of Waltham, at Emer- 
son's lectures, 1, 355. 
Ritson, his character, 1, 331 ; com- 
pared with Hazlitt as an editor, 
331 ; his Bibliographica Poeiica. 4. 
Rivalry, a powerful motive with 

Michael Angelo, 1, 206. 
Rivarol, his translation of the Divina 
Commedia^ 4, 143 ; on Dante, 162, 
164, 272. 
River-driver, description of M., a fa 
mous one, 1, 31. 



Blven, idth low banks, 1, 33 ; radden 
riw) of, in Italy, IM); Ciiaui'er'ii best 
talea comiNured to, 3, 3o5; tbeir 
course coiuiured to that of a gnutt 
■t.ftt«>8iiiaii, 6, liM>. 

Bffiicl-iuiikiiig ill Cambridge, 1, C5. 

Road«, Winter a mender of, iu old 
time*, 3, *AA. 

Robettpierre, 2, 88. 

Robin, a name for Satan, 2, 339, 3G6. 

Kobiua. Sf€ under BirdH. 

Robins, John, tlie last great Antichrist 
of the MuggletoniaiML, 1, 81. 

Robinson, Crobb, visits to Words- 
worth, 3, '/71 ; on Wordsworth, 4, 
38.') n, 400 n. 

Robinson, John, on the character of 
the Niiw England state, 6, i)7. 

Robins4)n, William, the Quaker, 2, GG. 

Jinf/iiison Crugot, See Defoe. 

Roc, 1, IIJ. 

Rochester, Karl of, 3, ITA. 

Rocket, fancy comi>ared to, 2. 81 ; 
M<*(Mellan*s reputation compared to, 
6. a"). 

Ro<I, Oarlvle's increasing employment 
of the, £, m. 

Rojate, Itnly, 1, 177. 

Rohind, Song of, 2, 152; 3, 310; 6, 

Koman dn lienart cited, 1, 327. 

Konuin de la Jioxe, the treatment of 
final and medial «, 3, 310 ; nlnOi 302. 

Roman army, slaves in, 6, 127. 

Roman Catliulic church, has net for- 
gotten the cren.itio instinct, 1, iU) ; 
dead in Itiily, IfiG ; what it dues for 
worship, im ; has kci:t her faith in 
the imagination, 1%; provides for 
both boul and body in her worship, 
195; the underbtanding her grettt 
foe, 190; provides for the childi&h 
in men, 100 ; has adapted herself to 
the wants and weaknesses of human 
nature, 107 ; tlie heir of many Bud- 
dhii&t fonnH of worship, 2(K) ; its cer- 
emonies not valued by the people, 
204; Bumencss of its ceremouieo, 
204 ; its vast estate of tradition, 2, 
274; Dryden^s leaning toward, 3, 
187 ; attitude of the Amer. Tract 
Soc. towaid, 6, 5. 

Reman churches, tlieir clumpy mag- 
nificence and want of proportion, 1, 

Roman columns, 1, 205. 

Roman £m]>eror, Dante on his su- 
l)romacy, 4, 153. 

Roman Knii)ire, its shadow felt in 
Rome, 1, 102 ; Dante's arguments 
for its universal sovereignty, 4, 

Roman imagines, a substitute sug- 
gested, 1, 317. 

Roman literature. See Latin litera- 



Roman nows, 3* 271. 

Rmmui Revolution of '48, the beo- 
gars with invested f unda the atancu- 
ebt reactionaries, 6, 28. 

Rinnan villas, ruins of, 1, 139. 

Romans, time of no value to, 1. 131 ; 
a grave people aince M9, 160 ; do 
not value the ceremoniea of the 
church, 204. See alsOy Italians. 

Romans, ancient, despised Greek lit- 
erature, 1, 100 ; their national feel- 
ing, 2, 282 ; fond of oonntry life, 3, 
201 ; their genius for politics rather 
tlian art, 305. 

Romance poetry before Dante. 4b 

R(miancee of chivalry, question of the 
Provengid origin of, 3, 309 ; Norman 
influence upon, 314; their lone- 
whidedness, 325 ; the attempt to u- 
legorize them, 301 ; Don Quixote 
more than a mere parody on, 6, 123 ; 
a/«o, 3, 301. See aUOj Chansoua de 

R(>nuuitic movement, feeblenees and 
introt-pection of, 2, 158. 

Rcmantic poetry, German, 2, 139. 

Rruiantic school f oresbadowM by QfHf 
lins, 4, 3. 

Romanticism, Lessing the oneonsciotBl 
founder of, 2, 222. 

R( me, its early history intexroreted 
by the territory around it, 1, 48; 
the mother-country of every boy, 
124 ; unchanged in most respcM^ 
125; well called the Eternal City, 
131 ; the approach to, in a diligen<'e, 
151 ; scenes of a spring day in, 162 ; 
the road to, from Civita VecohiA, 
IbO ; the rude shock to Fan<7 on aiw 
rivnl, ISO ; the French soldiers, 18^ 
190 ; auachronitnis and inconiiatexi- 
cies, 100 ; the presence of the imp»> 
rial ghofct, 191 ; its flolitudea, 192; 
the laboratory of a mystenooa en- 
chantresB, 107 ; the modomchurcheay 
205 ; the beggars, 20C ; deformitiee 
exhibited iu the street, 209 ; aifouiF 
tion of the city and its relation to 
others in early days, 211 ; the VHIft 
Albani, 214; the garden of tibM 
French Academy, 216; amusing 
scene at the fountain of Trevi, 216 ; 
the police, 216 ; Keats's lodgings In 
the Piazza di Spagna, 239 n ; Dante 
on, 4, 21(> n ; on the course of its 
hibtory, 241 ; on the miracles of it* 
hifctory, 247 ,' St. Augustine on, 241. 
Capitol^ its foimdations, 1, 192 ; Coi^ 
os^/eum^ 205; Forum ^ the deliber- 
ate manner of the excavators de- 
scribed, 210; Piazza Barherina^ 
152; Ponte Sant Angelo, 190; 
crowds on, 201; St. Peter** m 


to VeiuiluB, 151 : dmppoiutnHiit 
cointnOD in the lint right of, 192 ; 
Proteatnnt prejudices to be put 
aelde, 193 ; th« tiirone of a miffbty 
dynnety, 194; tbe mi«ic circle of a 

ticii, 197 1 iU temperature different 
men, 198: the Eaater pompa, aoo. 

le illui 

liution, 201 { tbe ScaHaa- 
in>, 3, 14, 362. 

Hoscoe, 4, &t. 

Roaecratu, Oon., at Uurfreeaboro, 6. 

Roaei and c■t>b•ge^ 1, 3MI. 
EoBse(«r, Brjui, nleade For rnniBiIon 

of t»e>. i, eo. 

RoaeeUi, Oabr 


RoDeuAD AVD 1 

BuTke'e, 234 ; tlw 

Ood, 245 ; s good IokIcIui 
oriRinal power, 24C : bts iv 

Haturs, 260 ; dlfflcnltlu Id JndgfaiE 
talm, 2I»; nUowanct* to be madt 
for bianatJonaiitjHndtnibiiug,2TO) 
inteiLSltf aud perauariveueBS of lilt 

212 ; compared iJilh Voaaire ai to 
aaceticiim, 245; blB MntunentBlitjr, 
1, 37Ci mida tha 1a>e at nature 
f aehlonsble, 3, 2C0 ; k[> tallai:ha ei- 
posad by Spenaer, 4, 350 ; aUo, 3, 

on hi> father'a conduct, S, 248 ; od 

Volture OD, l| 318; Burke on, a, 

JfouMMU jage Si 
It! remoral. 3, m 

Enieriou, 1, 349, 
unparad witb Dr^ 

RoT^ty, Ite da 

Rlidlger. Hcrr, Leaal: 
tare, 1°W. 

Rutfcin, 01 

drain, 6, 

lanla, 4, H: 
t ; alto, a, •£ 

■nd SarriMn, 346. 

hlintelf peculiar. ^A Zl>0; hie coii- 
faaiiona, 201; S, 92; bla InconXfr. 
t«iiciAa and paradoxee, 3, ?02; bia 

S™ eeen'ii his workaVas ; Iha foB- 
9G4 ; Clia veik mint In bla politicii 

r, the. hli unataid; roll In phyil- 
of a afaip [n tbo moonlight, 1, 

finm, 1, IIS. 
-an o(, 1,90. 
ivif IBt. FleTTS,l,3iei 3,202. 

!ak,2«G; St. HlUire. 



Bt. Preuz, 3, 200 ; his lore-Ietten, 2, 

St. Ren^ TailUndier on the JHvina 

Commfilia in S}iain, 4, 143. 
St. Biuioii, true, tliuugh not accurate, 

2, *i86 ; the secret of his art iu pic- 

tureaque writing, 4, CO. 
Bt. Vitim dance, 1, 'JOU. 
Bainte-Beuve, on connection with the 

world, 1, sltlA ; his criticiBUi makes 

its 8ulije<*t hiininous, 2| 100 ; on Oc- 

Uve FeuUlet, 6, Gl. 
Saints, legends of, relation to Ovid*8 

Fasti, 3, 3(il>. 
Saints and martyrs, the legends of, 4, 

Sais, the figure at, 1, 47. 
Salodin iu the miraclc-phiy of The- 

ophilvs, 2, 330. 
Salem, Uudurliill complains of a lack 

of military discipluie at, 2, CX). 
Salem witclicraft, Upham*s history of, 

2, 388 ; tlie character of the min- 
ister, Parris, 389; the demoniacal 
girls iu his fumily, 300 ; in the light 
of the Litth>ton catses in 1720, 301 ; 
the trials, 392 ; tlie victims all pro- 
teHted innocence, 304 ; the reaction 
against it from the people, not the 
authorities, 395. 

Sales, Francis, reminiscences of, 1, 

Salt Lake City, 3, 212. 
Saltonstall, Richard, letter to J. Win- 

throp, Jr., on Pryime, 2, 71. 
Samplers, 1, 187. 

Samson compared to Hernkles, 2, 134. 
fiawsoH Affonigtes. See Milton. 
Samson, Abbot, in Italy in 11C9, 1, 

Sancho Panza. See Cervantes — Don 

Sand, George, 2, 23G ; 3, 2C2 ; on art, 

1, 379 ; on autobiography, 2, 258 ; 

her coarseness, 6, GO. 
Sand, Maurice, his caricature of Amer- 
ica in the Jienie, 3, 240. 
Sandras, E. G., J^iude sur CChaucer^ 

3, 291, 298. 

Sandys, George, 1, 313; 4, 358 n. 

Sannazzaro, 4, 301. 

Sansovino on the date of Dante^s 
birth, 4, 121. 

Sant* Antonio, Ponte, expedition to, 
with Storg, 1, 133 ; loneliness of tiie 
place, 140. 

Santo Btefano, 1, 1G7. 

Satan, belief in his power, 2, 327 ; 
compared to James II. at St. Ger- 
mains, 328 ; the idea of a compact 
with him developed under Chris- 
tian'ty, 320 ; the contract itself sel- 
dom produced, 332; gonerally the 
loser by the bargain, 332; confes- 
sions by witches of dealings with, 
334-346 ; appearance as a black dog, 

334, 338 ; his namet, 398, 880, M7, 
348, 3ti4, 3ti5 ; his appearand de- 
scribed, 335, 340, 313, 340; hia np. 
pearauce as a goat, 337* 847, 300; 
degraded by popular supentition to 
a vulgar scarecrow, 34C ; Dr. Itoe 
on the stench left at hit dlsappeu^ 
ance, 347 ; his cloven foot. 347, 348 ; 
the raven his peculiar Urd, 9^ ; hit 
touch cold or burning, 3G4 ; atorlM 
of his doings on various occaaiong, 
3(iG ; his school of magic in Toledo, 
3(»8; worslilpped by the Indiana, 
37G ; makes no expresa compact with 
minors, 380 ; of Dante ana Milton, 
4, 1(>2 ; the 8}iubol of materialkm 
in Dunte, 204 n ; the first great ■•• 
ressionist, 6, 53. See altOy DeviL ' 

Satire, 4, 20; Dryden on, 3, 170; of 
Drydeu and Pope compared, 177 ; of 
Dante and Chaucer compared, 828 % 
of Chaucer and Lauglaiid, 331, 883 ; 
of Chaucer, SCO; of Fielding, 6f 

Saturday Ferfeto on Amerioan polltioa 
hi 1801, 6, 75. 

Saul seeking his father*a aneea, Oar- 
lyle contrasted with, 2, 08. 

Saunders, George, 6, 158. 

Sausages, Italian, 1, 123. 

Savage, Richard, 2, 236; his Latfat* 
isnip, 3, 184. 

Savagius, Jscobus, wrote a tnatiao 
against witchcrsit, 2, 383. 

Savonarola, 4, 120. 

Saxon. See aho^ Anglo-Samn. 

Saxon language, its character, 1, 261 ; 
never, to any extent, a litenunr lau- 
guage, 3, 11; foreign worda Intro> 
duced into, with difficulty, 12; Bo^ 
worth on, 15. 

S<'aliger, J. C, on Eraamna, 3, 114 o. 

Scaliuata, iu Rome, 1, 178. 

Scenery, its value often estimated bgr 
the cost of the ticket, 1, 1. SeeaUo, 
Landscape; Nature. 

Scepticid age reads Ood In a proaa 
translation, 3, 102. 

Scepticism, of modem traTeltoTB, 1, 
100 ; Lessiug's early scepticism. 8. 
185 ; of Rousseau, 246 ; in the l7th 
cent., 371, 375 ; the first oonain of 
credulity, 396; caused by material* 
ism, 397 ; of Hamlet, 3, 82 ; charao- 
teristic of Dryden^s age, 102 ; dilet- 
tantism its twin sister, 4t, 100 ; aUo, 
3, 187. 

Scheffer, Ary, his Chrigtu* Conteidior 
hi a Prayer-Book without tlie atovo, 

Schelling, Emerson before the 4. B. 
K. compare<1 to, 1, 867. 

Schiller, his Pegasus in yoke, 1, SOS ; 
his verses to Goethe quoted, %, 124 ; 
some of his lyrical poems too long, 
168; hU Gotz and Bobbwrt, 222; 



Ooleridge*8 debt to, 6, 71 ; a/jo, 2, 
on the great poet, 2, 111 ; on the 
gods of Greece, 327. 

Bchlegel, on Shakespeare, 3, 68 ; Cole- 
ridge's debt to, 6, 71. 

Schlosser on Dante, 4, 162, 163. 

Schmidt, Julian, as a critic, 2, 166. 

Scholars, their meddling in politics 
objected to by politicians, 6, 190. 

Scholarship, its riclies an enduring 
possession, 6, 80 ; its results, 87 ; 
necessity of having a definite aim, 
89. ^^0 olso^ American scholar* 
ship ; Learning. 

Sc^hool-children in old times, 2, 17. 

School-girls* letter style of composi- 
tion, 3, STie. 

School-house, village, described, 2, 
IG ; recollections stirred by, 10. 

School-house of Women cited, 1, 333, 

Schoolmaster, C^rlyle'a attitude to- 
ward the world compared to, 2, 

Schools. See American schools ; 
French schools ; Public school ; ed- 

Schoolcraft on the legend of the wer- 
wolf among the Indians, 2, 362. 

Schroder, 3, CO. 

Science, its condition In the days of 
witchcraft, 2, 373 ; the teaching of, 
6, 160; the noblest definition of, 

Science and morals, the advance in, 
compared, 4, 254. 

Sciences, Dante on, 4, 201 ; their 
place in a library, 6, 93. 

Scientific spirit of the present day, 1, 

Scot, Reginald, his Discovery of witch- 
craft, 2, 384. 

Scotch ballad-poetry, 4, 268. 

Scotch barnacle, 1, 276. 

Scotch gardeners in Cambridge, 1, 65. 

Scotch HighlanderH, contume changed 
by law, 2, 69 ; the clansmen rutli- 
lessly dispossessed by the Chiefs, 6, 

Scotch mist, its penetrativeness, 3, 

Scotch poetry of the 15th cent., 4* 

Scotchmen, effect of imagination on, 
2, 107. 

Scotland, witches burned for the last 
time in 1722, 2, 387 ; its loyalty in 
spite of rebellions, 6, 67. 

Scott, Dr., apparition seen by, 2, 323. 

Scott, Sir Walter, hia toryism, 2, 109 ; 
on Dryden's jealousy, 3 175; 
Wordsworth meets him, % 387 ; 
Wordsworth on, 399 n ; on Cole- 
ridge, 6, 73 ; his use of descriptions 
of nature, 111; the Antiquary in- 

fluenoed by Cervantet, 136 ; olM, t* 
120, 155 ; 6, 95. 

Scott, Uen. Winfleld 0., 6, 63. 

Scudtiry, Mile, de, 4, 318. 

Sculptors, 3, 282. See a/M, Oreak 

Scurrility, 4, 269. 

Sea in the imagination of village boyt^ 
1, 69. 

Ska, At, 1, 100-112 ; best seen from 
the shore, 1(X); steam fatal to ita 
romance, 101 ; a calm described, 
101 ; monotony of the life, 101 : the 
fiying-fifth, U>!2; the phoephoree- 
cence, 103 ; moonlight on the sails, 
104 ; the sun, 105 ; the ooean-hori- 
ion, 105 ; the sunrise, 106 ; the sea- 
serpent, 107 ; anecdotes of the Chief 
Mate, 1 14 ; the social proprieties at 
meal times, 1 16. 

Sea-captains of the old school, 2r 

Sea-moss, the sensibility of great po- 
ets compared to, 4, 413; certain 
thoughts and emotions comi>ared tOt 

Sea-serpent, not to be lightly given 
up, 1, 107 ; an old fisherman on the 
horse-mackerel theory, 108. 

Sea-shore compared to the boundary 
line between ideal and matter-of- 
fact, 4, 20>5. 

Sea-waves, Homer's verse compared 
to, 1, 292. 

Sea-weed at sunrise, 1, 106. 

8eba«ticook River, 1, 9. 

Sebonmok Pond, afternoon on its 
shore, 1, 30. 

SeceNsion, the danger of, diminishing 
in 1860, 6, 41 ; Buchanan's attitude 
toward, 47 ; the right of, untenable 
under the Constitution, 48, 72; 
threats of, unheeded at the North, 
51 ; means chaos and rebellion, 63 j 
the principle applied to other rela- 
tions, 53 ; the absurdity of the right 
developed, 54, 201 ; must not be 

Permitted, 68 ; the one question in 
and at the beginning of Lincoln's 
administration, 84 ; the doctrine ob- 
literates every notion of law and 
precedent, 87 ; Pollard's attempt to 
state the grounds of. 133, 184 ; prob- 
ably not originally intended bjf tho 
Southern states, 135, 169 ; the way 
prepared for, by political tenden- 
cies, 138; traced bv OMriejr to 
slavery and the dooMae of eteU 
rights, 130 ; the Sontbera people ed' 
ucated in the belief in, l4»; ite as- 
sured retribution, 177 ; the inm^m 
involved in, 265 ; the fffrtisstrfw of« 
■ useless after the war, 27«i dktioe- 
tion between the f%ht tosMmdenni 
Beoesdon kite, bote «<, i|, «L 



Bereulonistii. 8e9 United Statoa — 

SoitthriH Sttiies. 

Sectanaii. »iUf LA-uinff on, 2, 215; of 
thu W unlaw ur til iauii, 4« 3i>4. 

Seeing, the Chief 3L*t«*« nlutrpneM of 
siKht, 1, 115. 

Bi'*f7iiier, Preii., on witohcrmft, 2, 38G. 

SeMeii, on opinion and afftH'tiun, 2, 
VM ; on here»v, 210 ; aunotationa on 
Dniyton, 4, •^». 

Belf-abaAeiiient, 2, 'lO. 

Self-con(>eit, 2, ^'**. '^47. 

Self-oonfldi'uoe of Leai«infr, 2; 185. 

Bt>If-<'iiniMrioiisiieiii>, 1, 374, 3f5 ; 3, 81 ; 
intennifled by Christianity, 2. 13(> ; 
of niodeni iiin^iriuative literature, 
3,'^Jr2; of Milton, 4, HO. 

Bch'-<l<H*(>ptioii an eh'iiieiit in the 
witchcraft troiibleis 2, 370. 

Self-cxaiiiiuutiun dcstruyd originality, 
2, '2r>\K 

SeU-ttattery, 2, 25!». 

8elf-frovenuneiit, 6, 3^. 

Sclf-iuiiK>rtano<s foreign travel a rem- 
etiy for, 1, 4'!. 

B-Mf-iuten'rtt, B, 319. 

Self-knowledge, 3, 1230 ; importance of , 

8<*lf-made men, 2, 292 ; 3, 250. 

Bclf-reliani-e, tlie argument for, as 
drawn from the example of great 
men, 4, 382. 

8t>If-i-ospect of American yeomen, 1, 

Sell-tniRt, 4, 379. 

Bcmnies, 6, 310. 

Beneca, Quiutillan on, 3, 1C4. 

Sensationalism, of modom literature, 
2, 82 ; illustrated by the farmer at 
the burning of the meeting-house, 
83 ; of Carlyle, 106. 

Senses, necessity of educating and 
refilling them, 1, 175. 

Sensitiveness to criticism a common 
failing, 3, 231. 

BenRuous and sensual in poetry, 4, 

Sentiment, 1, 100 ; quickly brought 
dovi-n by Humbug, 190; distin- 
guished from sentimentalism, 2, 
252 ; its effect on state policy, 6, 

Sentiments and actions, 2, 243. 

BentimontaliRm, 2, 150, 229 ; with re- 
spect to Nature, 1, 370 ; of Car- 
lyle, 2, 92 ; of Burke, 233 ; as a sub- 
stitute for performing one's duty, 
248 ; disjoins practice from theory, 
249 ; sentiment distinguished from, 
252 ; little trace of, among the an- 
cients, 253 ; Petrarcli the first mod- 
em example of, 253 ; its sickly 
taint, 20() ; courts publicity while 
shunning the contact of men, 208. 
Burke on, 2, 232; Fielding's con- 
tempt for, 6, 62. 

Sentimentaliat, hia cburaeter to be in- 
vestigated when bu teachea monla, 
a,'2«3: dwells in unroaUtiea, 247; 
aelflbhnetia of, 250 ; the spiritual hjw 
pochondriac, 260 ; inaiato on taking 
hia emotion neat, 202 ; alwaya hit 
own ideal, 258; hia aelf-conadooa- 
neaa finally producea aelf-deception, 
25^}; Rouaf>eau the moat perfect 
tj-pe, 202 ; hia view of life, 2ffl ; ex- 
aggerates the importance of hia own 
personality, 268 ; anppoaed oheno- 
ter of his brain, 271. 

Sentimentalists, 2, 239. 
' Sermons of tlie New England denrr. 

Serravalle, Oiov. da, Latin tranaUtkn 
of Dante, 4, 146. 

ServantM, diflSculty of obtaining, in 
early New England, 2, 42, 70 ; in- 
conveniences of employing Indiana, 
43; decline in their quality wit- 
nessed by ShakoFpeare, and by Oon- 
zales in 1730, 45; Southey on, in 
1824, and Hugh Rhodes on, in 
l.'>77, 46 ; in Boaton, in earlier aayn, 

Seven Yeara War, the Pruasian natikm" 
al instinct an important factor in, 
2, 100; Leaahig'a feelings toward, 

Severn, Mr., friend of Keats, went to 
Italy with him, 1, 237 ; his atudio 
in Rome, 239 n. 

Beward, W. H., represents tlie most 
advanced doctrines of liis party, 5« 
34 ; his power as an orator, 34; his 
oflBce of bear-leader in tlie Presi- 
dent's tour, 290 ; fears f ot the aafe- 
ty of the platform at Niagara, 280 ; 
his motives, career, and character 
discussed, 292 ; hia course sn ezlii- 
bition of tumbluig, 206; his wgn- 
ments on the status of the seceding 
states, 302 ; his dealings with tlie 
Fenians, 322. 

Seward-Johmson RxAcnoir, 1866, 5« 

Sewing-machine, its inventor inferior 
to the great men of old, 2, 281. 

Shadows of leaves and boughs, 3, 22t. 

Shadwell, as poet-lanr^^te, 8, 107; 
Dryden's quarrel with, 178, 179 n. 

Shakespeare, his house, 1, 48; tlid 
country-gentleman who travelled 
up to London with him, 74 ; never 
in Italy, 127 ; quotations from, 140 ; 
unmatched in sncient art, 212 ; 
Marlowe his teacher in versiflo*- 
tion, 277 ; his humor, 278 ; his ore- 
ative faculty, 278; his sux>eriority 
to his contemporaries, 270; power 
of condensation, 281 ; his common 
sense impregnated with imagina- 
tion, 2, 81 : wieland's translstJon, 
222 ; reality of, 225 ; genius of, 2M*, 

mcthn of hli Inuglnatlod. 319; 6, 
BbAUBFUU OHCI MORI, 3, 1-94 i 
ble, i : suenllally ui obtervar iind 


itb AtcJi^lua In uw of lan^fua^i 

Che actJUD of tlia tiaulnUtan, 
4 ; with Duile lu to ^uElect, 4, 

Rood quall^H unappnclftt^, 1, 
9; on the decline III tlie qnnllty 

Mrvaiit*. a. 46 i on men', Mg- 
eiile, 3, IB2 ; on Eiiglund, 4, 295. 
rvinut oil, a. 1<>3 ; 3, CS ; Leulug'e 

lllelsm of, a, 2^2 ; 3, 07 ; jQn»t 
1, 10 n, 10; Wden mi, 57; hli: 

ity o[ Tmltntlng It, 37 i lU elmpli- 
CltJTi 39; quHlLty of hie Inrngiiution, 
40; 111* cliHia even In tmiinliitioa, 
4S ; Ble pOntr ul dncriptlan. 42 ; hie 
•:iiiiliiitb)r with hia cbatMtete, 43; 

HMn^hand, MTl./i444 proHted 

40 1 OTltlcl«ed Bfl plnylf 

ill tngedleft eoiEipufld 

tlir piirpoflf , 80 ; hie JudKmeht and 
poetic luiUiicE, 92 i hit nuterlal. 

ii Hilton, 3,40 1 

4«: Chai«eit 


.tHa; Bchls- 

tfnlriiii'anit arspnrrn.Lepldui tl]M]', 
3,1031 Jfamlel compared with tbs 

iw unpreJuUlced mind Imagined, 28 ; 
Hippolytuft, and Horculei Fureni, 

7G; the cliaractsr ol i , .., 

eo ; HaihlM'i madneei, U : ths 
teaching of tha play, 89, 91 : typical 
or a modeni quality of mind, 90 1 th« 

Str alio, Hamlet. Hnru VI.. pm^ 
allel pamite In the CEdlpue Colo- 
□eus, 3, CO; Imtam^ of quibbling 

»Bm, B4; Bdirkr'e protended mad- 
ieBa.M: Isuhlnfi of the play, 88; 
K: (he touchee of 

sacripClcn dependent 

. . Lady Macbeth, 
Gl ; 4, T4 ; KeinUe'i coitume In, 3, 
70 ; Its teaching, 69 ; glvee the met- 
aphysloa of appaiitlonB, 93 ; Meat- 
vrcfor Meaittte, defective in parti, 
22; Cltudio to he compared witb 

Phen ... 

ri.m( ^ IWn-, 

edy. B, 120 ; jWm 
lar. 1 JS ; Mid 
etc., t, :<n5 n; <. 
Irony of I'ibo, 83 
(he play, S) ; Itom 




niiin^, M; Sonnfh^ qiiotntion, 302 ; 
TeM}>r»t, its iiyiulK)lUiii trattnl, r>U; 
it!« rt'tereiweH tohiiiiM'lf, <'■! ; Timon^ 
t\w inuiy of Tiiiioii, Kt; Tioilut atui 
OfMi(/(i, BiMHM-h of UI,\tuM'8 t(> be 
coiiiinnMl with Juou»ta*H in the Phce- 
niswi', no ; quote«l, 4, >i38 n, 1M4. 

Bhunis, 2, 1(K<; Anglu-Soxou repug- 
nance for, 3, 317. 

Bliauie atteudiug ain, Webster^a linee 
oil, 1, 'Jfti. 

Shandy, Walter, 6, 193. 

Bhaw, Col., Ilia negro regiment, 2, 

• Mil 
*>«'! • 

Shnyb*8 rebellion, 2, 274 ; Gen. Pome- 
roy's atiitiule toward, 6, 70. 

Bheep and the goatH, the only line 
drawn by Christ, 5, 7. 

Shet'i)-Hheariiig in Pjwaawampflcot, 1, 


Shcfllcld, Mra. Deliverance, Hugh Pe- 
t<'r'H (MTph-xiticrt (■oncoming, 2, 25. 

Bhcllcy, hib iiiftii<>ii<*e traced on J. O. 
Porriva], 2, 14''; coiniwred with 
WonlHWdrth, 145; his f;euiu8 a St. 
Elmo's fir*-, 2-J«.»; on fire, 3, 255; 
S)H'iit<(>r*d iiifiueuce upon, 4, 352 ; 

aho. :un>, 41:j. 

Shenstonc, his verso on taverns, 1, 9. 

Shopard, TlioniaM, letter to Winthrop 
on drhikiiKf, 2, 42. 

Shephcrdf*, Italian, 1, 144. 

Slierbrooke, Lord, on educating your 
future riUors, 6, 34 ; on free schools, 

Sheridan, the Ilivals, 2, 130; Burke 
on, 3, 121. 

Shonuuii*8 lozenges, 6, ICl. 

Sliiftiiioss, American, its advantages, 
2, 28(>. 

Ship, IVrcivars verse compared to a 
cranky ship, 2, 141. 

Ship on fire within, Puritanism com- 
pared to, 1, 7fi. 

Ship's poor relation, X, the CIdef Mate 
an instance, 1, 117. 

Shipping, American, 6, 187 ; e£Fect of 
protection on, 217. 

Shoddy, 3, 222. 

Shooting-stars, 1, 305 ; and planets, 6, 

Shower-baths, 1, 180. 

Shows at the Harvard Commence- 
ment, 1, 79. 

Shrtigs, Italian, 1, 143, 165. 

Shylock, 3, 240. 

Siamese twin?, 1, 79. 

Sibbald, his Chronicle of Scottish Po- 
rfn/, 4, 209. 

Sibilants, Taylor's use of, 3, 122 ; Mil- 
ton's use of, 4, 91, 94. 

Sibyl, Temple of, at Tivoli, 1, 134. 

8i<lney, Algernon, 4, 19. 

Sidney, Sir Philip, Matliew Roydon's 
lines on, applied to Emerson, 1, 349, 
SCO ; Wotton on, 3, 189 n ; com- 

pared with Bpenaer, ^ 276 : his l»- 


guage, 301 u ; a/jo, 1, 366. 
Siegfried, 2, 110. 
Sierra Morena of Don Quixote, 1, 

Biger, Doctor, Donte'i alliuion to, ^ 

124, 172. 
Bipiboard on Lewia the laewer*i 

luuidcart, 1, GO. 
Silkworm, a poet compared to, 3, 800. 
Simile and metaphor, 4, 21. 
Similes, to be drawn from the flyings 

flhh, 1, 103 ; in Chaiimau'B Homer, 

291 ; in early English narrative po- 

etry, 3, 327 ; of Daute, 4, 2G0. iSM 

alsot Metaphors. 
Simonides, 2, 135. 
Simony of vrithhofding the glffai at 

Qod for a price, 6, 11. 
Simplicity, literary, 2, 82 ; of Homer, 

1, 293 ; distiugnifkhed from viilgar- 
ity, 4L 27G ; the crowning resutt of 
the highest culture, 900. 

Simpson, Agnes, her confession of 
witchcraft, 2, 352; the evidenoe 
against her, 3i8. 

Simulacra of Lucian, 2, 822 n. 

Sin, tlie hatef ulnesB of, ^ 17G ; Dents 
on the punishment of, 177; its na- 
ture, 251. See aho, EviL 

Sin and crime identical with Dante, 

Sincerity, required in a tonrlst, 1, 
122; the evidence of, 2, 243; de- 
manded of a sentimentalist, 267; 
nccessory for an autobiograiihj, 
200 ; also, 4, 18. 

Singularity, the conceit of, 9, 13. 

Singularity in virtue easily DeUeved, 

2, 259. 

Sirens, 1, 123; Prof. P. imagined paas- 

iiig their island, 02. 
Sixteenth century rich in fiunons man, 

3, IG. 

Skeat, W. W., editor of Clianoer,^. 

Skelton, John, Dyce*s edition of, 1, 
318 ; character of his verse, ^ 278. 

Sketching near TivoU, 1, 180. 

Slander, the truth in, 3, 231. 

Slave Power, its danger to tlie Unioii 
foreseen by Quincy, 2, 808. 

Slave trade, extension of, procured bj 
Soutli Carolina and Georgia, 6, 140. 

Slaves, Em. Downing advocates the 
introduction of, into New En^and, 
2, 42 ; excluded from the operatton 
of Providence by the Amer. Tract 
Soc, 6, 7 ; the sympatiiy with fugi- 
tive slaves at the North, 28 ; to M 
regarded as men under the Oomatl- 
tution and on Sonthem eridniee, 
29 ; in the Roman army, 127. 



Slavery, IfantonV lines on, 1, 268 ; in 
New England : John Wintlirop^a ne- 
sro, 2. 70 ; the attitude of tlie Auier- 
icau Tract Society toward, 6, 2 ; its 
discussion not feared in the South 
before 1831, 4; moral duties con- 
nected witli, proper subjects of dis- 
cussion, 6 ; compromise a fatal word 
witti respect to, 8 ; the inconsistency 
of Christians in condoninf^f, 11 ; an- 
tiquity no valid plea for, 13 ; has no 
claim to immunity from discussion, 
13, 31, 140; its abuses to be rooted 
out even if the institution were 
ri((hteou8, 14; essentially a moral, 
and not a political question, 14 ; the 
question forced upon us by the spirit 
of Christianity, 15 ; its influence 
upon American politics, 20, 42, 142 ; 
its degrading elTect on the non- 
slaveholding states, 21, 144; addi- 
tional privileges demanded for an 
already privileged property, 28 ; its 
discussion dangerous to the slave- 
holders, not to the Union, 31 ; its 
bligliting efTect on the South, 32, 
222, 224, 252 ; position of the Repub- 
lican party with regard to, 35, 42 ; 
its presence in the Territories keeps 
out free white settlers, 39 ; laws to 
protect it in the Territories de- 
manded, 40 ; its encroacliments com- 
pared to the advance of a glacier, 
43 ; will gradually melt away before 
the influence of Truth, 44 ; no longer 
the question before the country in 
18G1, 71 ; its violent abolition sure to 
follow secession, 71 ; moderation im- 
possible in combination with, 8G; a 
radical change in, to be expected 
from the Civil War, 91 ; ite history 
in America traced in Greeley's 
American Conflict, 139 ; the ebb of 
anti - slavery sentiment for sixty 
years, 140 ; its rise after the annex- 
ation of Texas, 140 ; early opinions 
of, in the South, 141 ; the theory 
of its divine origin an invention of 
recent date, 141 ; proflt the motive 
of all its encroachments, 142 ; the 
claim that it was conservative, 144 ; 
its abolition seen to be the neces- 
sary consequence of the War in 18G4, 
151 ; to be attacked as a crime 
against the nation, 152 ; McCIellan*s 
attitude toward, 1('>G; to be rooted 
out in order to insure a lasting 
peace, 175; Lhicoln'a attitude to- 
ward, 197 ; its abolition forced upon 
us by circumstances, 197 ; admitted 
as a reserved right under the Con- 
stitution, 201 ; proclaimed bv the 
South as the corner-stone of free 
institutions, 202 ; the slaveholders 
the best propagandists of anti-slav- 
•ry, 204; the South's proposal to 

arm the slaves in 18C5, 219; the 
main arguments for slavery thereby 
swept away, 220; its influence on 
the character of the blacks, 224 ; its 
security and extension the original 
motive of the War, 248, 250; the 
alleged attachment between master 
and servant, 319. See alsvy Fugi- 
tive Slave Law ; Property in slaves ; 

Sleep, 3, 258 ; in a wongen, after moose- 
hunthig, 1, 37. 

Sleeping in church, the Amer. Tract 
Society's tract on, 6, C 

Sleepy hostler described, 1, 12. 

Small men in Europe and America, 
the point of view different, 2, 277. 

Small-pox, Dryden's lines descriptive 
of, 3, 108. 

Smibert, the painter, 1, 75. 

Smith and his Dame cited, 1, 341. 

Smith, Adam, 6, 187. 

Smith, Goldwin, 3, 240. 

Smith, Capt. John, 2, G8. 

Smith, Gen. Kirby, on the possibility 
of destroying the Southern army the 
first winter, 6, 1 10. 

Smith, Sydney, his question, Who 
reads an American l>ook? 2. 149; 
on taking short views of life, 6, 215. 

Smoke, seen in winter, 3, 28G; Tho- 
reau's lines on, 28G. 

Smoking at sea, 1, 101. 

Smollett, copied Cervantes, 6, 136; 
Lessing on his Roderick Random^ 

Snow brothers, oyster men in Cam- 
bridge, 1, 66 ; anticipatory elegy on, 
67 ; on Commencement days, 80. 

Snow, the silence of, 3, 222 ; Goethe 
on, 267; poets' references to, 275; 
the wind's action on, 277 ; the foot- 

{>rints of animals on, 277 ; the quiet- 
y falling, 278 ; its beautiful curves, 
279 ; building and moulding in, 281 ; 
its colors, 283 ; in city streets, 284. 

Snow-crusts, 3, 284. 

Snow fights, 3, 282. 

Snow forU, 3, 282. 

Snow-storm, Homer*s picture of, j|. 
274; walk in, 274; the silence ana 
purity of the next morning, 276. 

Snuff-box, Dr. Waterhouse's advertise- 
ment for, 1, 96. 

Socialism, confuted by Spenser, 4, 
350 ; dangerous to the existing order 
of things, 6, 34 ; its beneficent pos- 
sibilities, 35 ; fatal to certain home- 
spun virtues, 171. 

Society, value of, 1, 15 ; 6, 168 ; its 
code of manners, 4, 11. See altOf 
Good society. 

Society, its constitution, etc., Dante^s 
views of, 4, 151 ; its periodic ebbs 
and floods, 265; the chief end ef 
Boan formerly and now, 6| 14 ; men 



beginning to know their opportunity 
and their power, 15 ; sociaJ upheaval 
the result of neglected duties, IG; 
the disquiet caused by ** growing- 
pains," 17 ; changes never wel- 
comed, 18; ases of transition, 19; 
the mastery of new social forces, 19 ; 
instinct to admire what is b^ter 
than one's self the tap-root of civili- 
sation, 32; state socialism disastrous, 
86 ; the germs of its evils to be dis- 
covered and extirpated, 36 ; violent 
changes not to be expected, 3G ; its 
strong constitution shown by the 
quack medicines it has survived, 37; 
Wordsworth's early belief in the 
gregarious regeneration of man,102 ; 
the necessity of individual improve- 
ment of personal character, 103 ; 
the Don Quixotes of, 121 ; the doc- 
trinaire reformers of, 123 ; the facts 
of life bound up with other facts of 
the present and the past, 124 ; Don 
Quixote's struggles against, without 
result, 124; the motto '*Do right 
though the heavens fall," 124; its 
recognized authoritative guides, 159 ; 
the intlucnce of tlie few, 178 ; neces- 
sity of cultivating the tilings of the 
mind, 227. See also, Civilization; 
Life ; Progress ; Culture ; Politics ; 

Socrates, 2, 104; his grave irony, 3, 

Bohrab and Rustem, 3, 311. 

Boil, its formation, 3, 300; language 
compared to, 312. 

BoMiorw, litorarv men who have been, 

2, 28(>. See ahoj American soldiers. 
Solidity and liglitness as elements of 

character, 6, 245. 

Solitudo, tlie suprcMnent sense of, given 
l)y full davliglit, 1, 105 ; Cowley on, 
3t3 ; folt in Rome, 102 ; needed for 
tho iinngination, 3, 132; verses on, 
in 1)o<lH]ov'n Collection, 223; alsOj 
2,37(5; 4,*»»0. 

Sonnet, 4, 402 ; Wordsworth's use of, 
6. 112. 

Boi)l)o<'los, 2, 138 ; Aiar, his quibbles, 

3, 54; Antigone, 4, 232; the first 
example of character-painting, 3, 
57 ; JClerfra, parallel passage in 
Hamlet, 49 ; (Edipua Colonerm, par- 
allel piAwige in King Henry VI., 50. 

Soraott*, iMland of, 1, 145. 

Soul, ooncoivcd of as a piece of prop- 
erty, 2, :)29 ; Dante on its relation 
to G(Hi, 4, 188. See also, Human 
nature ; Man. 

Soup, thn Iris^«*^ian's kettle of, 6, 283. 

South, the. ^Srf United States. 

Southampton, L. I., Declaration in 
1073, 2, 01. 

South Carolina, the long-windedness 
and fthort-meaningoess of her pol- 

iticians, 6» 60; the aeoeMloii pra- 
oeedings, 66; her pcditictaiis uokA^ 
managers, but not business men, 58 ; 
her prosperity dependent on cotton 
alone, 68 ; the difficulty of meeting 
her financial obliga'.ions in case m. 
war, 69 ; opens the War by the at- 
tack on Fort Sumter, 72 ; underval- 
ues the people of the IVee States, 
73; slavery abhorred by the best 
men of, in 1786, 141 ; at the Phila- 
delphia convention of 1866, 286. 

Bouthey, view of religion, 3, 187 ; hio 
correspondence, 4^60 ; his commii- 
nistic dreams, 373 n ; occasional 
coarseness of his ^ Doctor," 6, 60 ; 
anecdote of an old woman's remark 
on the weather, 85. 
on domestic servants, 2, 46 ; on pore 
Englishi 4, 277 n ; on Wordsworth, 
390 n. 

Southwell, reprinted in the ** library 
of Old Authors,'* 1, 253 ; his bad 
verse, 253 ; poor style of the editor, 
255; ultramontanism and credulity 
of the editor, 257. 

Spain, first glimpse of, ixom the sea, 
1, 114. 

Spalding, Capt., his sight of the sea- 
serpent, 1, 108. 

Spanish American republics, their 
great man ignored by us, 2, 283. 

Spanish drama, 2, 131 ; 6, 116 ; tlie 
Fate element in, 3, 57. 

Spanish literature, its national charao- 
ter, 6, 116. 

Spanish romances, 6, 116. 

Sparrow on the house-top, his life, 2. 
192, 198, 205. 

Spartacus, 6, 126. 

Spasmodic school of poets, 1, 280. 

Specialization in education, 6, 176. 

Specimen ruin wanted by a Michigaa 
man, 1, 212. 

Spectacles of the heroic period, 1, 91, 

Speculation, Dante on, 4, 167, 186, 

Speddhig cited, 3, 22. 

Spelling, vagaries of, 2, 61, 63; Mil. 
ton's, Masson's discusbion of, 4, 89. 

Spendthrift heirs, 1, 250. 

SrsMsxR, 4, 2C5-353 ; the condition of 
English poetry between Chaucer and 
Spenser, 2C5 ; his contemporaries, 
276 ; his influence on the transfor- 
mation of English literatiure, 2^; 
birtli and family, 284 ; education and 
early life, 285 ; residence in Ireland, 
280; visit to London in 1589, 287; 
is shocked by tlie life of the Court, 
288 ; familiar with Dante, 146, 290 n, 
332 n ; his own success at Court, 290 ; 
his allusions to Burleigh, 291 ; visit 
to England in 1595 and advance- 
ment by tlie Queen, 296; his chil- 



dren, 296 n ; his death, 297 ; his pov- 
erty and iniiifortunes exaggerated, 
207 n ; his personal cliaracter, 298, 
337 ; his originality, 299 ; turned to 
Chaucer as his master, 301 ; his skill 
in versification, 302, 305 n, 310, 328 ; 
his sense of harmony, 303 ; his con- 
ception of poetry and tlie poet's 
office, 306 ; his diction, 308, 334 ; 3, 
8 ; his learning, 4, 309 ; his function 
" to reign in the air," 313 ; probably 
a Puritan, 314 ; tended to a Platonic 
mysticism, 315 ; his purity without 
coldness, 31G, 352 ; his study of 
French sotirces, 316 n ; all his senses 
keenly alive, 317, 326, 330, 343; 
lacking in sense of liumor, 319 ; his 
style Venetian, 326 ; his splendid 
superfluity, 328 ; shown in his meas- 
urement of time, 330 ; his dilatation 
the expansion of natural growth, 
831 ; his verne produces a condition 
of revery, 334, 349, 353 ; his world 
purely imaginary and unreal, 335, 
348 ; delight in the beauty of na- 
ture, 338 ; his innovations in lan- 
guage, 347 ; his alliterations, 347 ; a 
solid basis of good sense, 350 ; an 
Englishman to his inmost fibre, 350 ; 
his disciples, 351 ; Keats's poetic 
faculty developed by reading, 1, 
223, 243 ; language, 3, 12 n ; rein- 
vented the art of writing well, 36 ; 
his*verse, 345, 350 ; 4, 108 ; his view 
of nature, 3, 855 ; his allegory, 362 ; 
lines on the Rosalind who had re- 
jected him, 4, 51 ; Milton's obliga- 
tions to, 302, 305 n, 333 ; alsOj 3, 16, 
189, 336, 337 ; 4, 25, 97, 114. 
compared with Sidney, 4, 276 ; with 
Ovid in Pontus, 286 ; with Bunyan 
as to allegory, 322. 

on -Chaucer, 3, 365 ; on hexameter 
verse, 4, 277 ; on use of language, 
346 ; on riding, 351 ; on the world of 
the imagination, 6, 94. 
Drydeu's opinion of, 3, 123 ; 4, 351 ; 
Milton on, 207 n, 314 ; Lod. Brys- 
kett's account of, 292 n ; Sidney on 
his language, 301 n ; Henry More 
on, 314 ; Hazlitt on, 321 ; Lamb on, 
326 ; Hughes on his measure, 329 ; 
Warton on his stanza and his cir- 
cumlocutions, 329 ; Pope on, 351 ; 
Wordsworth on, 351 ; Landor on, 

Coiin Chut, 4, 286, 288; — Daph- 
tMuIa^ 33ld;—EpUholamion, 337; 
— Faery Qiteen imitates the closing 
allegory of the Purgatorio, 207 n ; 
its success, 287 ; inspired by Ari- 
osto, 299, 319 n ; the sense of taste 
In, 317 n ; its two objects, 318, 324 ; 
its characters the leading person- 
ages of the day, 318 ; Mary Queen 
of Scots as Duessa, 319 n ; the alle- 

gory, 319, 321, 326 ; Its merits, 320 ; 
its faults as narrative, 321, 323 ; 
compared to an illuminated MS., 
325 ; quotations to illustrate the 
style, 329-335, 340, 344; the son- 
nets prefixed, 337 u ; the charac- 
ter of Una, 339 ; confutation of so- 
cialism, 350 ; its influence on tlie 
world, 351 ; — Hymns to Lore and 
Beauty, 31G; — Mother HubbenVs 
Tale, 289, 313, 315 n, 320 n; its 
date, 290 n ; — Mutability^ 297 n ; — 
Muiopotmog, 310, 326 n; — ProihO' 
lainion, 337 ; — liuins of TVwte, 291 ; 
— ShepheriVs Calendar ^ its publica- 
tion marks an epoch in English lit- 
erature, 299; its spirit fresh and 
original, 300 ; its style, 302 ; quoted, 
303, 301, 305, 2m \— Tears of the 
Muses, 292. 

Spenserian stanza. See English pros- 

Sphinx-riddle, the childish simplicity 
of its solution, 6, 199. 

Spinoza, 3, 355 ; 4, 153 n ; Coleridge's 
and Wurdswortli's study of, 380 ; on 
the strength of laws, 6i 37. 

Spire, characteristic of New England 
religious arcliitecture, 1, 54. 

Spirit of the Age, 6, 162; Dryden's 
recognition of, 3, 102. 

Spiritual eye, th« imagination, 2, 84. 

Spiritualism, 2, 396, 397 ; 6, 120. 

Spontaneousness, 6, 79. 

Spread-eagle style, 1, 349. 

Spring, 3, 258 ; 6, 107. 

Squatter sovereignty, 6, 25, 39. 

Squire of Latv Degree, Hnzlitt's and 
Ritson's editions of, 1, 331 ; cited, 

Squirrels, 4, 267 ; depredations of the 
red squirrel, 3, 219. 

Stage, its morality early defended by 
I^ssing, 2, 185. See also, Acting. 

Stage-coach ride from Waterville to 
Newport, Maine, 1, 9 ; incident of 
the hot axle, 10. See also^ Dili- 

Stahr's Life of Lessing. See Lessing, 
Stahr's Life of. 

Staminate flowers of literature, 1, 

Standard histories, 6, 121. 

Standards, those of our companions 
easily adopted, 1, 24. 

Stanley, Dean, speech in the chapter- 
house of Westminster Abbey, Dec. 
13, 1881, 6, 47-50; the character of 
the mourners at his funernl, 48 ; the 
many-sidedness of his sympatliies, 
48 ; Americans ready to contribute to 
his memorial, 49 ; his pleasantness, 
49 ; the human nature in him, 49. 

Stanton, Secretary, McClellau's un- 
founded charges on, 6, 1 12. 

Stars, 1, 356 ; Thoreau's writing con. 



Mred to, 370; Men in winter, 3, 

BUra in the TrieniUal Catalogue, 1, 

Bturllt night, 1, 350. 

Bute rights, 6, (33 ; In the light of the 

fnuners of the Constitution, 147 ; 

Jefferaon^s theory of, 148 ; confuaion 

of wind with regard to the doctrine, 

Btate aoclalimn diaafttroua to the com- ' 

munwealth, 6, 35. 
Btat^aniausliip, a complicated art, 3, 

2^W> ; its uecesaary qualities. 6, 115, 

183 : iU highest function, 195 ; the 

f»roblems and duties of, 6, 19G ; il- 
ustrated in the writmgs and 
speeches of Burlce, 197 ; shown by 
Benators Fessenden, Trumbull, and 
Grhnes, 198 ; the duty to study ten- 
dencies and consequences, 21G. See 
also, Government ; Politics. 

Btatesmen, 2, 302 ; course of a states- 
man compared to that of a river, 6, 
19<) ; the waiters on popular provi- 
dence humorously so called, 6, 186. 

Btatesmen and politicians, 4, 179. 

Statintirs do not appeni to the Muses, 
2, 27(5. See also, Figures. 

Statins read to the Earl of Orford when 
drunk, 2, 129. 

Statues, naked, not inappropriate out 
of doors in Rome, 1, 215. 

Steam, 1, 2fi ; its influence on educa- 
tion, 7 ; fatal to the romance of the 
sen, 101. 

St(>dman, champion of the county, 1, 

Steele, Sir Richord, on politicians, 3, 
284 ; his compliment to his wife, 4, 
49 ; his loyalty to Addison, 53. 

Steevens, GeorRe, cited, 3, 22. 

Stephen, Leslie, 3, 243. 

Stephens, Alex. H., arguments for 
slavery, 6. 220 ; on the cause of se- 
cession, 248 n. 

Sterne, 1, 3G4 ; 2, 88, 260, 325 ; THs- 
tram Shandy, 88 ; his hnmor, 1, 278 ; 
2, 170 ; influenced by Cervantes, 6, 

Btemhold, 3, 175. 

Btemhold and Hopkins quoted, 4, 274. 

Stevens, Thaddeus, of Pennsylvania, 
6, 265, 305. 

Stevenson, Marmaduke, the Quaker, 

Steward, the Chief Mate's jokes in re- 
gard to, 1, 118. 

Stilts, Shelley and Wordsworth on, 2, 
145 ; Percival's appearance on, 146. 

Stimulants, use of, Carlyle's increas- 
ing extravagance compared to, 2, 

Stoicism, genial, advantages of, 1, 46. 

Btolberg, Auguste, Goethe's letters to, 

Stomach, the, its country-ooatluBlilp 
to the brain, 3, 119 n. 

Storg, Edelmann (W. W. Stoty), 
Mooeehead Journal addressed to, 
1, 1 ; memoir on Cambridge thir^ 
years ago addressed to, 43 ; the au- 
thor's early life in company with, 
52 : journey in Italy in company 
with, 128 ; not fond of walkinff, 13a 

Storms clinrged to America, 6, 12. 

Story, W. W., 6, 151. See a/«o, Storg. 

Stoughton, on tlie planting of New 
England, 6, 146 n. 

Stoves, 3, 286. 

Strafford, Masson's description of the 
death of, 4, 73. 

Stratford de Hedcliffe, Lord, 6, 39. 

Strauss, some Italians familiar with, 
1, 156. 

Strawberries, Thoreau's worka com- 
red to the various kinds of, 1, 

Street-cries in Rome, 1^ 152. 

Stuart, character of his paintmg, 1, 

Stubbs, John, 2, 65. 

Study, without application, mere gym- 
nastics, 1. 20. 

Style, 3, 31, 35, 37, 353 ; 4, 21 ; of 
small importance to the young, 26 ; 
clearness and terseness essentials 
of, 54 ; the importance of knowing 
what to leave in the inkstand, 79 ; 
its power in historical composition, 
5, 120 ; the practice of translation a 
help toward, 6, 93. See also, Abun- 
dance; Alliteration; Artifice; As- 
sonance; Bourgeois; Choice of 
words ; CompoBition ; Conceits ; Cor- 
rectness; Decorum; Description; 
Diction ; Elegancy ; Eloquence ; Ep- 
ithets ; Execution ; Expression ; 
Force ; Form ; Images ; Individual- 
ism ; Indirectness ; Metaphors ■'Nat- 
uralness; Personification; Similes* 
Simplicity ; Suggestion ; Superlal 
tives ; Unconventionality ; Uuex^. 
pectedness; Vividness, 
of Emerson, 1, 367 ; of Thoreau, 370 ; 
of Shakespeare, 3, 36; of DauieL 

Styles, Elizabeth, her confession of 
dealings with the Devil, 2, 338. 

Stylites, the oldest surviving graduate 
compared to, 1, 83. 

Subiaco, the road to, 1, 130, 152 ; seen 
from a distance at night, 181 ; ar- 
rival at the inn, and supper, 182 ; 
the scenery about, 182 ; convent of 
San Benedetto, 183. 

Sublimity, in mountains, how felt, 1, 
41 ; Dryden on, 3, 189 n ; audacity 
of self-reliance an important port 
of, 4, 116. 

Subscription for repairing a cmivent 
demanded by a fruur, 1, 209. 



or on a 


8aceeM,l,17: te 
popuUr ideal of, •, 173; 
meMureof Awrtiou^ 

Boffering, eaj>j«l bj 
talift, t, 2jtf; iU 

Buffrafe, pmpertj qi 
iahed in MMMchuetU. •, 10. 

Buffrage, nefcio. ^« Nefro 

Buffngp, nniveTMl, iU 
and objectlom, 5, 232; iU faalura 
in large ciUaa, 6, 11 ; iU pneticad 
working, 28 ; danger of d e ajing it, 
29 ; develops the prvdeaoe and dia- 
cretion of the people, 30. 

Bufla, their teaching OQ the tkrae itepa 
to perfection, 4, 253u 

8 jggestioa, more important tksa co- 
mulation, 3, 42 ; Tidne <rf, in litera> 
ture, 171. 

Buicide, Chtteanbriand'a attempU at, 
a, IGO ; PerciTal'a attempt at. 100 ; 
LeMiag*8 tbooghU of, 209; Drjr- 
den^B lines on, 3, 141 n ; Waller's 
lines on, 4, 23. 

Suicide by proxy, 2, 251. 

Slimmer, 3, 258. 

Sumter, Fort, rumors of ita intended 
bombardment, 5, €2. 

Bim, alone with him at 
mountain top, 1, 106. 

Snnfish harpooned at sea 

SuuHowers, 1, 59. 

Sunrise, at sea, 1, 106; 

S'-inset, on the Penobscot, 1, 33 ; ne^r 
Tivoli, 144, 1S4 ; at Palestrina, 159 ; 
original every evening, 212. 

Sunset of life, 2, 3(M>. 

Sunshine in It'ilv, 1, 215. 

Super Auoos, Volt lire on, 1, 204. 

Superlatives in Milton, 4, 96. 

Supernatural, origin of the belief in, 
a, 320. 

Supernatural and natural, a vast bor- 
der-land between them, a, 373. 

Superstition, Roman Catholicism in 
Italy only a, 1, 156 ; the SMthetio 
variety of, %, 317 ; its etvmological 
meaning, 326 ; its growth nora myth, 
359; regarded aa of one substance 
with faith, 385 ; caused by material- 
ism, 397 ; modem superstition the 
Jaoobitism of sentiment, 317 ; decay 
of, 6y 31. 

Superstitions often the relics of reli- 
gious beliefs, a, 326. 

Supper at the inn, in Subiaco, 1, 182. 

Surrey, 4, 274, 302 ; hia JEneid^ 3, 
137 n. 

Swearing, of the Italian guide, 1, 173 ; 
ito evangelista, 362. 

Swedenborg, 4» 252 ; some Italians fa^ 
miliar with, 1, 156. 

Sweetheart, appreciation of, by oUier 
people, 3, 232. . 



hi Caffljplf, 

ef tiM mptel, 3, 97 ; mm of 
cntacissd, 1-^4; hu stitr. 13U; 
Utfay cywnMM, 1:^3: hia vi^w of i^ 
ligiao, 4, l>«;all«-ted iwtiflervwv 
to tJie world in hia cirrmnondenrg, 
2tf ; c o TtVi sp ofleiKf »lth ropr, SO; 
hu inHurm-* on P<ipr, .*»7 ; f oiuparad 
with Fwlding . 3, %*\ ; mflusncsd by 
Cf rranina, 13i^ ; <f/«e, 2, I'll, 
on the iaflaeoc^ of women in rsiniaf 
langaage,3, 131 ; on I>ryden, 13*^ n ; 
on hia preiaoea, 131; oa RoMan 
Dryd«« on. 3, 132 n. 

SwnracBsra's TsaoBons, 3, 120-139; 
bis power of aiimilsting style, I'jii ; 
his Chngtelnrd^ ita rhararter, I'J-J; 
briongs to the physically intenaa 
arhool, 122; his Atalnntn in f'o/y. 
<f(m, its verse, VS\ ; iU lark of real- 
ity, 124; \\A profusion of imagery, 
126; its Greek theme and man- 
ner, 126; essay on Wordaworth, 6, 

Switzerland, democracy in, 6, 21. 

Sword, the gift of Christ, 5. \». 

Sylvester II., Pope, chargMl with hav- 
ing made a compact with Satan, 3. 

Sylveater^s Du Bartn*^ Dryden's opin- 
ing of, 3, 123 ; Wordsworth on, 4, 

Symlmlism of the XXrina Commedia^ 

Symmachus, 3, 322. 

Symonds* HUl, Cambridge. 1, 54. 

Sympathetic powder, Sir K. I>igby*s, 

Sympathy, of kindred pursuits, 1, 
118; fostered by simple village life, 
4, 360 ; increased by individualiia* 
tion, 6, 242 ; between England and 
America, 6, 50. 

Syntax, Dr., 3, 109. 

T. O. A. = Thomas Gold Appleton. 

T. H. = Thomas Hughes. 

Tacitus, tlie Agricola compared with 

Maidstone's account of Cromwell. 

2, 37 ; a phrase of Milton 'm borrowmi 

from, 4, 85 ; aho^ 150, 301 ; 6. 120. 
Taine, his History of English litera- 
ture, 6, 124. 
Talent, compared with genius, 1, 84 ; 

character valued more highly tlian, 

2. 257. See aUo^ Genius. 
Talleyrand, want of respect for, 2. 

TanntiKuser, 1, 107; its allegory, 2, 

Tariff, Pres. Cleveland's message on, 

6, 186, 216 : reduction of the tarilT 

demanded, 216. 



TAiirr Rrmui : addretB Dec. 29, 18S7, 

TasBU, 3, H>; bia definite compari- 
■uiia, 4, i*'0 i bu work Mv«d by it« 
dictiuii, 6» (4. 

TaiiU*, 3, 1^ ; tbe Anglo-Saxon want 
of coutUleu<*e iu nutttcrb ut, 4, 13 ; 
miiBt uoc exceed iU ri^IitluJ pruT- 
ince, '21 ; contruvernie^ ut, '.!0 ; beuae 
off iu tlie J'urry i/uftti^ 317 n. 

Taurua, coiMtelLititin prettidw over 
bulla aud bluuderis 1, \if>'l. 

Tarerus, in Maine, 1, il ; Sheustone^s 
vene uii, 'J; at tiri^nville, 12; in 
Kineu, kept by Siiuire Barrows. 18 ; 
tlieir carnal attr.u-tiuns bewailed by 
Cotton Mather, 78; in Pawiawanii)- 
M'ot, 1^7 ; kept by i>erfiiU8 who have 
nut tbe geuiiu, 2, 71. Hee also^ 

Ta venter, the ftbost of James Haddock 
apjiearn to, 2, 3'J2. 

Taxation in Aubtria in ir>4€, 6» 14 n. 

Taylor, B.iyunl, ({uoted, 6, '^»7. 

Taylor, Jeremy, his loiif^ Henteitoes, 1, 
217 ; one of Keats^H laitt pleai>ure>s 
2:fi) ; bia style, 3, 121 ; aUo, 3 ; 4, 
325 n. 

Taylor, John, the water poet, bis lan- 
guage, 3, 12 n, 

Taylor, ThoinaH, the Platonist, 6, 145. 

Teachers, rarity of great teacliers, 6, 

Teaching, the aims of, 6, 158 ; its ten- 
dency to decline, 171. 

Teaching language, Roger Williams^s 
method, 2, 32. 

TearH, genuine and assumed, 2, 251. 

TediouiinesK, 2, 15G. 

Telimine, lament of, 3, 311. 

TeiretdaH, 4, 115. 

Telegrapli, its insidious treachery in 
multiplying rumorp, 6, IH); its im- 
partial brevity and cynicifcju, 230 ; 
Its elTect on tlie national thought 
and character, 243 ; 6, 175 ; makes 
the wliole nation one great town 
meeting, 6, 244 ; its effect in a de- 
mocracy, 6, 23 11 ; the common ner- 
vouH HyHtcm of the world, 42. 

Temperance qne.stioii, in early New 
England, Thomas Shepard on, 2, 
41 ; attitude of the Amer. liract 
Soc. toward, 6, 5. 

Temptation, Kousseau on the avoid- 
ance of, 2, 24!). 

Toniers, passage in Spenser compared 
to, 4, »»9. 

Ten-niiuute speeches, 6, 222. 

Tennyfion, character of his verse, 2, 
121 ; his Lhjlh of the King, 132 ; 
quoted by a Missisbippi boatman, 3, 
2()0 ; his knights unreal persons, 6, 
242 ; also, 4, 3(i9. 

Tenure of oflBce, in Cambridge, in old 
times, 1, 51); the four-year term 

rnnpared to a naQ-^nttfag macTiine, 

Terni, falls of, B\-ron on, 1, 129l 
I'erry. abuse of Keata in Blackwood, 

1, j-ji;. 

Teittauieut, DaTeoport*s **riglit«im,** 

Teutonic poetnr before Dante, ^228b 

Texais bettlers from Free Sb^eadriTen 
out Irum, 6f 39. 

annexation of, cooaeqnent rite of the 
auti-K>laveiy spirit, 6, 140 ; encroach- 
ments of Slavery after, 1^ 

Thackeray, W. M., at aea, 1, 102; 
sentiment of, 2, Wl ; aa an histo- 
rian, 6, 121 ; ou the hands and feet 
of tlie Americans, 310; on field- 
ing, 6, (^ ; »l*o, 2, 117 ; 3, 357. 

Tiiolefs 2, 1('8. 

Theatre. See Acting ; Drama ; Stage. 

Theatrical scenery compared to ehort- 
lived literary fame, 2* 77. 

Theleme, Abbey of, 1, 88. 

Theobald, Pofie on, 4, 52. 

Theocritus, 2, l28, 136; 6, 174; D17- 
den on, 3, 1^. 

Tlieodoric troubled by the death of 
Symmachus, 2, 322. 

Theological diitcubsion, lack of inter- 
est in, on the part of the laity, 8, 
217; at Geneva, 245. 

Theology, Lessing^s attitude toward, 
2, 214 ; Dante on, 4, 201. 

Theopbilus of Adaua, 2, 329. 

Theory and practice civorced biy the 
seutimentalifet, 2, 249, 250. 

Theories and facts, 2, 76. 

Thermometers, 3, 196. 

Thiers, 6, 208. 

Thinking, an occupation geneiallr 
dreaded, 1, 21 ; the highMt remit 
of education, 6, 89. 

Thomson, the first descriptive poet, 3, 
202 ; his poetical creed, 4, 8 ; hia 
Winter a protest aoainst the litera- 
ture of Good Socwty, 8 ; hit style 
compared with Milton^a, 86 ; a fol- 
lower of Spenser, 362 ; oIm, 8, 98 ; 

on winter, 3* 266. 
Lessing on, 2, 196. 

Thor, traditions of, transferred to the 
Devil, 2, 348. 

Thoreau, 1, 361-381 ; his poethiunoaa 
works, edited by Emerson, com- 
pared to strawbeiries, 968 ; his high 
conceit of himself, 969 ; his lack of 
the faculty of ^neralixation and of 
active imagination, 369 ; Us critical 
power limited, 3G9; his Ktjde, 870; 
less poet than naturalist, 370 ; hit 
discoveries, 370; liis freshness of 
treatment, 371 ; his Isolation and exp 
clusiveness, 371 ; his itch of original- 
ity, 371, 373; his paradozn oon- 
pared to Dr. Winship's dumb-beUt, 




372 ; his extravagance of state- 
ment, 372 ; the limitations imposed 
by his withdrawal from the world, 
373; his lack of humor, 374; his 
egotism, 374 ; his character not 
sweetened by communion with Na- 
ture, 377 ; the quality of his mind, 
378 ; monotony of his writings, 378 ; 
his writing incomparable at its best, 
379 ; the ideal element, 379 ; his in- 
dependency of mankind practically 
impossible, 380; his aim, 380; his 
style, 380 ; lines on smoke from a 
wood-cutter's cabin, 3, 28G ; on the 
" whoop " of the freezing lake, 290. 

Thought, influenced by the material 
it works in, 6, 87. See a/so, Think- 
Thunder, Milton's more elaborate pas- 
sages compared to, 4, 101. 

Thimder-storms, J. F.'s enjoyment of, 

Ticknor, George, his kindness to 
young scholars, 2, 160 ; his lectures 
on Dante, 4, 147. 

Tide in the affairs of men, 2, 8. 

Tieok, 2, 130 ; on Kemble in Macbeth, 

Tiedge, 2, 146. 

Tillotsou, Lessing's father the trans- 
lator of, 2, 181 ; Dryden's style 
formed after, 3, 185. 

Time, the Roman and the Anglo-Saxon 
treatment of, 1, 131 ; measured by 
the great clock of the firmament, ^ 
330 ; lines of Spenser referring to, 
331 ; God alone has enough, 6, 188 ; 
also^ 4, 408. 

Timon of Athens. See Shakespeare. 

Tinker, John, steward of Winthrop, 
his use of the word help quoted, 2, 
44 ; extracts from his letters, 70 ; 
desired to keep an ordinary or tav- 
ern, 71. 

Tithonus, 2, 79. 

Titian's Assumption, the cherubs of, 

Titles, the republican ear soon recon- 
ciled to, 1, 135. 

Titmouse, Emerson's, 3, 200. 

Tito, at Tivoli, 1, 136. 

Tivoli, visit to, 1, 128 ; source of the 
Roman lime supply, 150 ; drive to, 
from Subiaco, 184. 

Tobacco, 2, 58. 

Tobacco chewing, 1, 69. 

Toby, Uncle, 5, 107. 

Toepffer, his poet, Alberto, who tried 
to look like his portrait, 4, 409 ; 6, 

Toledo, the Devil's school of magic in, 

Toleration, 2, 18; 6, 48; difficulty of 
obtaining a perfect conception of, 
2, 67 ; Colerid(re on, 216. 

ToU, paying, 1, 84. 

Tombola, or lottery, 1, 156. 

Tombs, John, Anabaptist writer, 2| 

Tooke, Home, on Dryden, 3, 180 ; on 
his Don SebastUm^ 173 ; etymology 
of highth, 4, 93. 

Toombs, Robert, 6, 66. 

Tories of Cambridge, 1, 54, 94. 

Torneo, 1, 145. 

Tortoise, Gilbert White's observations 
on, 3, 194. 

Torture of witches described by Bo- 
din, 2, 379. 

Toryism of Scott and Carlyle distin- 
guished, 2, 109. 

Torzelo, Cambridgeport marshes com- 
pared to, 1, 72. 

Toucy, 6, 78. 

Town meetings, 6, 244 ; as a means of 
trainmg in citizenship, 6, 208. 

Tracts confused with actions of trover 
by the Amer. Tract Soc, 6, 8. 

Trade distinguished from commerce, 
2, 290. 

Trade unions, 6, 18. 

Trade wind, tlie movement of Milton's 
verse compared to, 4, 402. 

Tradition, the one thing better than, 
1, 3G4 ; its value in politics, 6, 22. 

Traditions, their power, 2, 112; the 
preciousness of, 3, 223. 

Tragedy, English, French, and Span- 
ish, 2, 131. See alsOf Drama. 

Training, 3, 250. 

Training-days, Harvard Washington 
Corps on, 1, 88 ; fight with the col- 
lege students, 92. 

Transcendental, the abuse of the term, 

Transcendental movement, 1, 354 ; its 
humors, 3G1 ; its solid and serious 
kernel, 303 ; simply a struggle for 
fresh air and /t/e, 364; its radical 
difference from the doctrine of Car- 
lyle, 367. 

Transformation of men into animals, 
instances of the belief in, 2, 360. 

Translation, the aroma of the original 
necessarily lost, 1, 289 ; an adequate 
hnpression of force and originality 
demanded, 289; recent discussions 
on translating Homer, 291 ; liber- 
ties allowed a translator, 294 ; Cole- 
ridge's excellence in, 6, 72; the 
practice of, favorable to a good Eng- 
lish style, 93 ; its value as a means 
of discipline, 166; alsoy 3, 42; 6. 

Chapman on, 1, 288, 290 ; Lieber- 
klihn's theory of, 2, 179; Dryden 
on, 3, 181 ; Dante and Cervantes on, 
4, 218. 

Translations, Dryden's, 3, 114 ; value 
of, 6, 92. 

Transubstantiation, 4, 256; a slave- 
dealer's view of, 6, 2. 



TnTel, how one la thrown upon ono^s 
own reM>nrct'», 1, VJ ; Ix^Ht time of 
life for, 43 : u cure for M'lf-iiuiH)r- 
10111*6, 45 : taiuiliurity ^ itl> oiic'm own 
village, at lenut, a iirenxpiiMte, 4i> ; 
the luvntiil and (>iiiritunl outi't for, 
commonly uiilipediil, 45 ; delicate 
■enoea and thtf flne eye of imagina- 
tion necesmry, 4(> ; itu object to 
know thingx^ not m^n, 47 ; verses 
on travel at home, 47 ; mere sights 
need not be visited, 48; its object 
to discover one's self, 4U; folly of 
Tisitiiig Eiiroiie if 8elf-abt»or1)c<l, 49; 
the wise man t<t:iys at homo, Trf); 
necessary for the study of lesthctics, 
but not of history, Tiii ; opinion of 
Jonathan Wild's father on, I'JO ; 
Moittaigiie's and Ulysw^s's objects, 
122 ; books of travel, 6, 04. 

Travellers, their storiei* no hmger pro- 
verbial, 1, 109 ; inoilern trnvollers 
too sceptical and scientific, IdU ; no 
longer eiMlowcd with imagination, 
IIU; miiituken aims of mot-t, 120; 
their want of sincerity, 122; on 
what the value of their journals de- 
pends, 127 ; beset by guides, as oys- 
ters are by crubx, \'M. 

Traason, Aineri<>an notions of, 6, 255. 

Tree of knowleilgc, its apples now 
nearly all plucktMl, 1, 109. 

Trees, of Cambridge, 1, r4 ; their 
anatomy seen in winter, 3, 2KG ; tlie 
associations of, called up by the 
imagination, 4, 397. 

Trent, CouiM'il of, 2, 22. 

Trial, the sources of strength in, 6, 

Triennial Catalogue of Harvard Col- 
lege, 1, 82. 

Trixtnn of Godfrey of Strasburg cited, 

Trithemius on the demon-cook of the 
BiHliop of Hildcsheim, 2^ 300. 

Triumph, Roman, 1, 144. 

Troubadours, 3, 302 ; compared with 
the Trouv^res, 312 ; love of n.iture, 
355. See alsoy Provencal poetry. 

Trouv^res, 3, 04; 4, 2(36; 6, 242; 
freshness and vigor of their poetry, 
3, 309 ; its disproportion and want 
of art, 310 ; compared with tlie 
Troubadours, 312 ; acquired an ease 
and grace in narrative, 313. 

Tnimhnll, Jolni, the painter, 1, 76. 

Trumbull, Dr. Hammond, 6, 149. 

Trumbull, Senator Lyman, 6, 198. 

Truth, sacredneRs of, 2, 108 ; Carlyle's 
passion for, 113; Lessing-s passion 
for, 198 ; one for tlie world, anotJier 
for the conscience, 209; purity in 
language dependent on veracity of 
thought, 270 ; its form and position 
variable in different generations, 
371 ; in works of art, 3, 71 ; of sci- 

ence and of mormla compared, 4, 
255 ; not to be followed too near the 
heeU, 310 n ; 6, 02 ; conrts diaciuH 
simi, 6, 13 ; its benignant influence, 
44 ; loyalty to, 327 ; why she Is sidd 
to lie at the bottom of a well, 6, 28 ; 
the difficulty in finding and iuter- 
pri'ting, 158: its personal appUoi^ 
ticHi, 194. See altto. Fact. 
Lcssing on searching for, 2, 230 ; 
Ch.iucer on, 3, 296; Tiangland on, 
3:'^*); Dante on the puiauit of, ^ 

Truth to Nature, 3, 56 ,* how reached, 
2 128. 

Tun'ibling, political, 6, 295. 

Tup«do tree, 1, 70. 

Tupper, M. F. , 1, 254 : 3, 267, 330 ; 6, 

Turell, Mr., of Medford, exposed a 

case of pretended witchcraft, 2, 11 ; 

account of a case of pretended poa> 

setsion in Littleton in 1720, 391. 

I Turenno comi>ared with Frederick the 

I Great, 2, 114. 

Turgot on simplicity, 1, 376. 

Tiirubull, W. B., editor of Boothwell'a 
poems, his poor English, 1, 265 ; hia 
ultnunontanism and credulity, 267. 

Turner, Colonel, 2, 24. 

Turner, J. M. W., Wordaworth-a de- 
scriptive poetry likened to, 4, 872 ; 
his remark to a lady who did not 
appreciate hia pictures, 6, 123. 

Turnips, 1, CO. 

Turtle-dove, 3, 214. 

Tusser, his lines on his aarty ediuMu 
tion, 2, 298. 

Twaddle in ancient timea, 1, 100. 

Tweed 4 178 

Twiiight,'in St. Peter'a, Borne, 1, 201 ; 
its charm described, 3, 220. 

Twin-brothers Snow, elegy upoo, 1, 

Tyler, John, Prea., 6, 291 ; Us lack 
of popularity, 290. 

Tylor on the origin oS. the ■cpentato- 
ral, 2, 320. 

Types, 3, 314. 

Typographical errora. See lOspriota. 

Tyranny of a democracy, the Md fal- 
lacy of, 5, :wi. 

Tyrwhitt, editor of Chanoer, 3, M8b 

Ulloa on the converaifm of the 
cans by the Spaniards, 3. 301. 

Ulrici on Shakespeare, 3. 64 n. 

Ulysses, wreck of, 1, 107 ; hla oUeoU 
in travel, 122; the tjpe of longi- 
heodedness, 2, 128 ; of Bhakeapeanu 
Dante, and Tennyson, 3, 71} of 
Shakespeare, 92. 

Unaccountable gifts aacrlbed to fan* 
probable causes, 1, 32. 

Unattained, the, ita beauty inaatmML 



Unbelief. See Scepticism. 

Uncle Zeb. 1, 16 ; his conversational 
powers, 17 ; his opinions on water, 
25, 27 ; his theory concerning salt 
pork, 27 ; his frequent potations, 
and difficulties with his load, 29. 

Unconventionality essential to poetry, 
4. 22. See also^ Naturalness. 

Unaerhill, Captain, his character, 2, 
57 ; his theological heresies, C8 ; his 
public confession in Boston, 59 ; ex- 
tracts from bis correspondence, 59 ; 
beseeches Dudlev and Winthrop to 
use him with Cfhristian plainness, 
61 ; defends himself from aspersion, 
62 ; example of his grandiloquent 
style, G3. 

Understanding strong in the Saxon 
character, 3, 318. 

Undine. See Fouqud. 

Unexpectedness a source of pleasure 
in reading, 2, 83. 

Unicom, 1, 112. 

Uniformity, of the present age, 1, 39 ; 
of ordinary minds, 4, 379. 

Unitarianism in England, 6, 19. 

United States, the preoiousness of the 
nation seen in the light of the he- 
roes of the War, 3, 221 ; its materi- 
al greatness, 234 ; the bhange from 
the conditions of the Revolutionary 
period, 240 ; the changes brought 
about by the war, 249; relations 
with Enffland in 1869, 252; immi- 
gration into, 6, 25 ; the material 
prosperity of our early history, 201 ; 
the Fourth of July period, 202 ; the 
true birthday of the nation, 223. 
See alao^ America ; American Civil 
War ; American Colonies ; American 
politics ; Congress ; Declaration of 
in 1805-13, 2, 301. 

in 1860, 6, 17^14 ; the election await- 
ed with composure, 17 ; its political 
significance, 21, 22, 34, 39 ; Cotton 
proclaimed King by Mr. Hammond, 
22 ; the interpretation of certain 
points of the Constitution the ques- 
tion at issue, 23 ; all four tickets 
profess equal loyalty to it, 23 ; the 

Srinciples of the Democratic can- 
idates, Breckinridge and Douglas, 
24; the aliases of the pro-slavery 
party, 24 ; the Bell and Everett 
ticket, 25 ; its prime object defined 
by Gov. Hunt, 27 ; two parties, a 
liestructive and a Conservative, in 
the field, 27 ; the latter as little 
likely to abolish human nature as 
Lincoln to abolish slavery, 30 ; the 
rights and institutions of the North 
also sacred, 30 ; the multiplication 
of slave communities the question 
at issue, 34 ; the position of the Re- 
publican party, 36 ; the ezoitement 

of the time a healthy sign, 36; a 
question involving the primal prin- 
ciples of government to be decided, 
37 ; the domestic relations of the 
states not to be interfered with, 37 ; 
decided opinions on the subject of 
slavery discouraged, 38 ; the fate of 
the Territories to be determined, 39 ; 
the threat of secession not likelv to 
be carried out, 41 ; the demana of 
the Free States, 42. 
in 1861 : the inadequacy of the last 
months of Buchanan's administra- 
tion, 6. 45, 179, 248 ; the credit of 
the nation shaken, 45 ; the signifl- 
oance of the crisis, 46 ; the question 
oftsecession, 48 ; threats of, nad not 
been generally believed, 51 ; rapid 
growth of a united public senti- 
ment, 52 ; the extent of coercion 
called for, 55, 68, 73 ; necessity for 
prompt action, 56, 67, 86 ; the time 
for concession past, 57, 64, 86 ; the 
demands of the South for special 
protection of its slave property, 57 ; 
the absurd rumors of the day, 62 ; 
the army and navy loyal, 62; the 
prevalent confusion of ideas in re- 
gard to state rights, 63; the dutv 
of the hour, 64 ; interference with 
the South in its domestic concerns 
not intended, 65 ; the Union to be 
preserved at any cost, 65 ; civil war 
to be avoided by prompt action, 67 ; 
the antipathy between the North 
and the south exaggerated, 67 ; the 
loyal minority in the Slave States 
to be supported, 68 ; the hesitating 
policv of the government, 69, 75; 
the President's correspondence with 
rebel commissioners, 69; the Bor- 
der States being infiuenoed by South- 
em emissaries, 70 ; not slavery, but 
the re<istablishment of order, the 
question in hand, 71, 84 ; South Car- 
olina begins the war, 72 ; the duty 
of exerting the power of the gov- 
ernment, 73. 

disunion for a time supposed to be 
inevitable, 6, 75; the North stag- 
•gered for a moment by the claim to 
a right of secession, 76, 85 ; a Con- 
vention of Notables called, 76 ; com- 
promises freely proposed, 76, 166; 
time thus gained by the Seoession- 
ists, 77, 85, 86 ; the position of the 
Border States, 77, 82 ; the need of a 
leader, 78 ; the inauguration of Lin- 
coln, 79; the despondency in the 
North, 79, 178 ; the secret and dis- 
honest proceedings of the South, 80, 
91 ; Lincoln's inaugural, 81 ; the ad- 
ministration's lack of confidence, 82. 
88; the proposed abandonment of 
Fort Pickens, 82 : conciliatory meaa- 
urea for the Border States, 82 ; the 


Opportima fo 


tba war wuenl«r«d iJpoti,'JM. 
In 1B6!: Wpulu uueuLnsM U 
GltUao'i delay*. S, UO I the Pi 
d«nt^B poll^'y with regmnl to emBa- 
olpKtion, 197 ; tJie demand for ji 
deddfld policyt 199 : Ihe unHtCled 
■bite of Iha public jrAiA iritb refmrd 

^tery men of tlie North demaDdvd, 
in 1804 1 McClallin u ■ UDd<dat«fo[ 

hhlp dftmuwd. tlSt 
IIT; ths d«ep poipow of the r- 
tlDo^lie : what^oes the ■■ Coiuer 

ecntlsii at the vu loecitable, 1 
nOl IhB difficult pDaition of 1 
Domocratlc wtty. 103 ; Its cm 
dUee, 1M, m ; the nomliuitlDi 
political Wlinl'(i-ilt IBCiChe De 

propDBal, 158, ISi; 1 

dU^fu B 




Southern delegation, 277 ; sectional- 
ism to be put aside, 277, 280 ; the 
attitude of the American people 
toward the South, 278; the South 
not to be admitted to a share in the 
government till they have given evi- 
dence of loyalty, 281 ; the Philadel- 
phia convention, 283; its central 
principle the power of the President, 
288 ; its constituents, 288 ; the Pres- 
ident's tour and speeches, 289, 296 ; 
its ostensible object discreditable, 
290; Mr. Seward's part hi it, 292; 
the President's tour a national scan- 
dal and a wrong done to democracy, 
295 ; the crowds that have followed 
him no index of popularity, 296 ; the 
present status of the seceding states, 
297 ; the question of reconstruction, 
300 ; a Union in fact, not merely in 
form, to be secured, 300 ; the Presi- 
dent's threat to use force against the 
Congress, 301 ; Seward's arguments 
on the status of the Southern States, 
302 ; negro suffrage demanded by 
the Radical party, 303 ; immediate 
suffrage not necessary, 304; the 
freedom of the parts must not en- 
danger the safety of the whole, 305 ; 
absence of revengeful feeling to- 
ward the South, 306 ; the South to be 
treated kindly, but with firmness, 
307 ; the possibility of future war to 
be averted, 308, 316, 325 ; our duty 
toward the negro, 311, 321, 324; 
the Americanization of America 
the stake at issue, 312 ; the finan- 
cial outlook, 314 ; the hesitation of 
Congress, 314, 322; a bold policy 
founded on principle advocated, 
315 ; the position of the Republican 
party, 317 ; the Rebel States not to 
be tskkan back on trust, 319 ; the 
terms imposed not harsh, 322 ; suf- 
frage to be within the reach of all 
alike, but its conditions not inter- 
fered with, 323 ; the attitude of 
Congress toward the Executive, 326 ; 
faithfulness to the American ideal 
demanded, 326. 

in 1887 : the President's message on 
the tariff, 6, 184 ; its effect on po- 
litical parties, 187; the questions 
of the War superseded by others of 
present importance, 188. 

in 1888 : the Republican appeal to 
the passions of the Civil War, 6, 
211 ; the condition of civil service 
reform, 215 ; the effects of the pro- 
tective system, 216 ; the Treasury 
surplus, 218. 

Border States: Southern emissaries 
early at work in, 6, 70; undertake 
to maintain a neutrality, 77 ; the 
conspirators encouraged by Lin- 
coln's inaugural, 81 ; their ciecision 

more important to themselves than 
to the North, 82; the mistake in 
trying to conciliate them, 83, 88; 
confusion of ideas in, as to rights 
and duties, 87. 

Constitution : loyalty to, asserted by 
all parties, 6, 23; slaves not rec- 
ognized as property by, 28 ; to be 
bent back to its original rectitude, 
35 ; to be construed in favor of free- 
dom, 37 ; acknowledges no unquali- 
fied right of property, 40 ; the doc- 
trine of secession in the light of, 54, 
68 ; discussions of, at the outbreak 
of the Rebellion, 100 ; no perpetual 
balance of power between free and 
slave states contemplated, 143 ; not 
an anti-slavery document, 145 ; the 

auestion of state rights, 146; idle 
iscussions with regard to, 276 ; the 
doctrine of a strict or pettifogging 
interpretation, 298 ; the Virginia 
school of interpretation, 299; the 
men of the constitutional conven- 
tion, 6, 206 ; the idea that the ma- 
chine will work of itself, 207; 
Dante's system compared to, 4» 

Oovemment. See American politics. 

Northern States : degrading effect of 
slavery upon, 6, 21 ; their rights and 
institutions to be defended as well 
as those of the South, 30 ; increase 
of population, wealth, and intelli- 
gence in, 42; their courage and 
Sersistence underestimated by the 
outh, 73 ; the dirt-eaters of the first 
months of the war, 79 ; Pollard's 
picture of the conditions of life in, 
133 ; their uniform concessions to 
the Slave power, 143, 145 ; the habit 
of concession the true cause of the 
war, 146 ; their growing determina- 
tion to resist aggressions, 204 ; the 
war entered upon with thoughtless 
good humor, 251 ; the theory of the 
" erring brother " persisted in, 2^ ; 
the strengthening of purpose and 
character during the war, 254 ; ab- 
sence of revengeful feeling towurd 
the South, 306. 

Southern States attd Southerners: 
their concessions in slavery mat- 
ters, 6, 9 ; rights in slave property 
not infringed, 28 ; ill effect of dav- 
ery upon their prosperity, 32 ; un- 
equal distribution of wealth in, 33 ; 
the danger of their condition, 33; 
boastfulness and loquacity of, 50 ; 
their consequent hallucinations, 51 ; 
their quarrel not with a party, but 
with the principles of democracy, 
67; the financial difficulties of se- 
cession, 69 ; their misconceptions 
with regard to the North, 61, 136 ; 
the instability of a confederacy 



which ■hotUd allow ■ ec ea d on, 61 ; 
the abolition of atate liinra propoaed, 
61 ; gain time by diaciiwiioua of com- 
prouiiiie, 77 ; ilenounGe aa coercion 
the exerriae of authority by tlie 
govemnient, 77; counted on the 
aelf-intereat of England and the 
aupineneai of the North, 78 ; their 
aham goremment and secret pro- 
osedinga, 80; their open stealing 
from the general gOTemment, 80 ; 
conscious of the weakness of their 
cause, 91 ; their constitutions in- 
tensely democratic, 134 ; probably 
only intended a coup iTitaiy and not 
secession, 13C, 151), '203 ; tlieir social 
and intellectual superiority in Wash- 
ington, 13C ; Greelevon their virtues, 
139 ; expected by the framers of the 
Constitution to decline in power, 
142 ; their gradually increasing en- 
croachment, 142, 145 ; their confi- 
dence in Northern pusillanimity the 
cause of the war, 14C; the people 
educated in the belief that secession 
is their right, 149 ; the high quali- 
ties shown by them in the war, 149 ; 
their ideas of tlie North fundamen- 
tally modified, 149; not hopelessly 
alienated from the Nortli, 151 ; their 
condition desperate in 18C4, 158 ; the 
leaders not afraid of abolitionism, 
203 ; the public spirit called out by 
the war, 211 ; the question of their 
status on returning to the Union, 
217; the change in public opinion 
produced by the war, 219 ; the pro- 
posal to arm the slaves, 219; the 
South thereby restored to the old 
position taken by her greatest men, 
220 ; the plan futile as a war meas- 
ure, 220; shows that the mass of 
the people are opposed to contin- 
uance of war, 221 ; the spread of 
Northern ideas, 221 ; allowances to 
be made for the evil influence of slav- 
ery, 222 ; the main elements of re- 
generation to be souglit in the South, 
222 ; the effect of slavery on tlie 
character of the ruling class, 224, 
252; their advantages in war pro- 
portionate to their disadvantages in 
peace, 225 ; any genend confiscation 
of rebel property unwise, 226 ; the 
people must be made landholders, 
227 ; retribution to come upon the 
rebel leaders from their own sense of 
folly and sin, 227 ; the security and 
extension of slavery the motive for se- 
cession, 247, 250 ; secession expected 
to be peaceful, 218 ; enter upon the 
war in ignorant self-confidence, 251 ; 
lose control of their temper, 252 ; 
their ferocity in the prosecution of 
the war, 253; their standards and 
opinions unchanged by the war, 

257 ; cling to the fragments of thalr 
oki system, 258 ; their conatitatioiua 
position during the war, 276 ; tha i^ 
titude of the American people to- 
ward, in 18C6, 278 ; their pr^odieos 
to be overcome, 282 ; poalaoii in the 
rhiUdelphia convenUoo of 1866, 
287 ; status of the aeceding atatao 
after the war, 297; to be treated 
with firmness and dedaion, 807; 
have learned nothing ftom the war, 
307 ; to be made tonnderataad ioma- 
thing of American ideas, 808 ; ehar- 
acter of their prosperi|hr and dvill- 
zation before the war, 800 ; the Booth 
to be made to govern itself, 812; 
necessarily prejudiced in dealing 
with the freedmen, 819 ; the tenna 
of admission not harsh, 822; the 
system of privileged classes to ba 
discontinued, 323; what the term 
**the South" should mean to ns, 
324; the memory of thdr dead 
justly cherished, 325 ; the protection 
and education of both black and 
white to be provided for, 325 ; growth 
of equality in spite of alaVery, 6, 
204. iS'eea/«o, ReiconstruotioD;DlaT- 

Territories : their fate to be decided 
by the election of 1860, 6, 89 ; the 
presence of slavery incomptffciUe 
with the settlement of free whites. 
39, 146 ; laws demanded to protect 
Southern property in, 40 ; the North 
demands freedom for, 42. 
The West, political equality In, 6, 204. 

Universal suffrage. See Bnninige, nni* 

University defined, 6, 168 ; its highest 
ofBce to distribute Uie Bread of Uf e. 

Universities of Europe, their antiqai- 
ty, 6, 142. 

University towns, 1, 68 ; preaerre cer- 
tain humors of character, 89. 

Unnaturalness, 1, 376. 

Uphom, C. W., his Salem WitekeraJU 
2, 388, 395. 

Use detracts from beaoty, 1, 202. 

Utah, the case of her secession sup- 
posed, 6, 64. 

Vaccination introdnoed 1^ Dr. Watar- 

house, 1, 96. 
Vagrancy, the temptation to, 3, 22S. 
Valera, Juan, on Don QuixoUt v, 122. 
Valet de chambre, view of great men, 

Vallandigham, Mr., 6. 806; at the 

Philadelphia convention, 28^ 
Vampires, 4, 273. 
Vanity, 2, 233. 
Variety of men, to be found alwajs at 

home, 1, 47. 
Vassalls, of Cambridge, 1, 66. 



Vaughau, Henry, 4, 21 n ; on the rain- 
bow, 3, 222. 

Velino, falls of the, 1, 129. 

Venetian art, its spirit in Washington 
AUston's work, 1, 77. 

Venetian painting, Spenser's style 
compared to, 4, 327. 

Venice, 1, 33 ; the domes of St. 
Mark's, 206 ; her mercantile achieve- 
mento, 3, 233. 

Ventadour, Bernard de, 3, 303 ; a pas- 
sage of Dante traced to, 1, 316. 

Ventoux, Mont, 3, 260. 

Venus of Melos, 3, 41. 

Vere de Vere, 3, 236. 

V^ricour, on Dante a member of the 
apothecaries' g^ild, 4, 128. 

Vernon, Lord, 4^ 227 n. 

Verona, Dante at, 4, 135, 136. 

Veronese, Paul, a stanza of Spenser's 
compared to, 4, 326 n. 

VersaUles, 1, 191. 

Verse. See Blank verse ; Couplets ; 
English prouody ; Poetry. 

Versification, the hop-skip-and-Jump 
theory, 3, 350. See also^ English 

Vespers heard in St Peter's, Rome, 1, 

Vesuvius, 1, 49 ; to Naples what St. Pe- 
ter's is to Rome, 151. 

Vetturiui, Italian, bargaining with, 1, 

Vice, personal element in the hatred 
of, 2, 236. 

Victoria, Queen, her sympathy on oc- 
casion of President Garfield's death, 
6, 39, 41, 50. 

Victory, the love of, 6, 212. 

View, enjoyed while eating, 1, 174 ; 
from Ol'evano, 174; from Subiaco, 

Vighiere, Blaise, Des Chiffres^ 2, 57. 

Vigneul-Marvilliana on literary bor- 
rowing, 3, 143 u. 

Viking fibre in boys' hearts, 1, 69. 

Vikings, their later representatives, 2, 
' 290. 

Village life, Cambridge on example of, 

Village'wit, 1, 58. 

Villages, in Northern Maine, 1, 9 ; 
American, described, 185i 

Villaui, Filippo, 4, 142. 

Villani, Giov., on Brunetto Latini, 4, 
124 ; sketch of Dante, 138. 

Villiers, George, Rehearsal^ Dryden 
on, 3, 175. 

Virgil, 2, 80; 3, 305; 6, 227; in the 
Middle Ages, 3, 302 ; 4, 221 ; Dry- 
den on, 3, 120, 180; Dante on, 4, 
197 n. 
JEneid^ translation by Gawain Doug- 
las, 271 ; —Moretum^ 2, 135 ; a peas- 
ant kindling his fire, 3 287. 

Virginia, compared with Massachusetts 

in its early InstitutiODS, 2, 15 ; her 
position cowardly and selfish in 
1861, 6, 77 ; honored the peculation 
of a cabinet officer, 81; joins the 
Confederacy, 87; on the necessity 
of coercion in 1787, 147 ; life of the 
older families of, 309 ; devotion and 
endurance of the people, 325. 

Virginia Convention of 1831, the dis- 
cussion of slavery not feared by its 
members, 6, 4. 

Virtue, in the deed and in the will, 
not to be separated, 2, 249; the 
fugitive and cloistered kind, 249; 
Dante on the delights of, 4, 172 n ; 
power of the examples of, in History, 

Virtue sowing, Webster's lines on, 1, 

Vischer's JEsthetik, 2, 164. 

Vividness of expression, 3, 31 ; 4, 73 ; 
Carlyle unexcelled in, 2, 101. 

Voice, powerful, its use, 6, 286. 

Volcanic disturbances in early times, 
1, 141. 

Volcanoes, sweeping outline of, 1, 
139; the clouds over, eompared to 
Rousseau's writings, 2, 263. 

Volition, obscure action of, 2, 390. 

Voltaire, the Lucian of the 18th cen- 
tury, 2, 97 ; Carlyle's account of, in 
his Friedrich^ 102; Lessing's rela- 
tions with, 187; the debt of free 
thought to, 263; his fame, 4, 6; 
makes Difficulty a tenth Muse, 8; 
jtidged by power of execution, 42 ; 
a/jO, 2, 236; 4, 161. 
compared with Dryden, 3, 180 ; with 
Pope, 4, 57. 

on the superfluous, 1, 204 ; on Rous- 
seau, 878 ; on his Disconrs sur VIn- 
SgalitS, 2, 176 ; on Shakespeare, 3, 
63, 68 ; 4, 17 ; on Hamlet^ 3, 86 ; on 
Comeille, 141 ; on rhyme in French 
poetry, 157 ; on Racine's BirhiiCB^ 
160; on Dryden's All Jor Lov9f 
163 n; on his Alexander^ 9 Feast^ 
186 n: on Pope, 4, 6; on French 

birth, 122; on political parties in 
Florence, 126 ; on Can Grande della 
Scala, 134 ; on Dante, 144, 164 ; on 
petty considerations, 6, 196. 

Voss, Goethe learned to write hexam- 
eters from, 3, 46 ; bis LuUe^ 46. 

Voting, Prof. P.'s method, 1, 94. 

Voyage, Percival's poetry compared to 
an aimless voyage, 2, 141 ; the spec- 
ulations of men likened to, 872. 

Voyage of life, our vessel often nn* 
suited for its dangers, 1, 32. 

Voyages, books of, 6, 94. 

Vulcan, truKtinns of, transferred to 
the DevU, 2, 348. 



Vulgar, its original meaning, 3, & 
Vulgar tast« in literature, 3, SJKl. 
Vulgarity, the Anierioaiui charged 

with, 3, '^i*i i au eighth deadly uu, 

Vulgarity and dniplicity diatiuguialied, 

4, '2715. 
Vulgarity of phrase in Drydeu, 3, HI. 

W. = Dr. Waterhouse. 

W. M. T. = W. M. Thackeray. 

W., Judge = Judge Warren. 

Wace, hU treatment of final and me- 
dial r, 3, 345. 

Wailp, General, 1, 2G4. 

Wages, protection has no effect on, d, 

Wagons, white-topped, bringing coim- 
try wares to BoHton, 1, 70. 

Walburger, his Iff LnmiU quoted at 
length, 2, :UU-3.VJ; on the bodily 
transportation ot witches, 3r>4, 355 ; 
discusses the propriety of lying to a 
witch, 371). 

Wales, Prince of, his motto, 3, 14 n. 

Walker, JanteH, Pres. of Harv. Unir., 
on President Quincy, 2, 307 ; also^ 
6, 151). 

Walker, W. S.,on Sliakespearian yersi- 
ficatiou, 4, 10^ ". 

Walking, the Kilelniann Storg not 
fond of, 1, l.'X); on a winter morn- 
ing, 3, '2S3 ; in a winter night, 288 ; 
in the morning air, 201. 

Wallacliian legend of KuluUa, 6, 85. 

Walled town, its sense of complete- 
ness, 1, 5. 

Waller, his servility to Charles, 3, 
llt>; verses to Cromwell and to 
Charles II., IIG; Dryden on, 154; 
his iitferiority, 15G; his Improve- 
ment of the Maid's Tragedy^ 4, 14, 
22; on care in writing, 14; on 
rhyme necessary in tragedy, 22 ; 
o/<o, 3, D, 143 n. 

Walpole, Horace, foresaw the French 
Revolution, 2, 2G3 ; his letters, 4, 
51 ; aluo, 3, 171). 

Walrave, Gen., 2, 115. 

Waltham, Mr. Lyman's place at, 2, 

Walton, 3, 192 ; his style, 129. 

War, source of good fortune in, 2, 
114 ; general sympathy with failure 
in, 6, 92 ; national pride of success 
in, 93; success the only argument 
for tlie soldier, 9G ; exacts the en- 
tire devotion of its servants, 101 ; 
the power of improvising a cam- 
paign, 107 ; the place of caution, 
112 1 the qiiality of a great general, 

Wurburton, his defence of Pope, 4, 38, 

Wrtnl, J. II., Life and Letters of J. O. 
i'rrnvid, 2, 140-161. 

Warner, Wnilam, S, B3; 4, 89; his 
Alhion^s England, 278. 

Warren, Judge, anecdote of, 1, 87. 

Warton, Joseph, his claasificatkm of 
poets, 4y 2 ; on Pope, 63 ; on Spen- 
ser's stanxa, 329 ; also, 2, 225 n. 

Warton, Thomas, Haxlitt's remarks 
on, 1, 329; his Hutory of EngiUk 
Poetry, 320 ; also, 2, 225 n. 

Warwicksliire, 1, 48. 

Wasliington, George, in Cambrldfl|e, 
1. Dti; Josiah Quincy's descriptum 
of, 2, 2m ; the lesson of his life ap- 
plied to literature, 6, 224. 

Washington corps. ;ife« Harvard Wssb- 
ington corps, 1, 88. 

Washington's life-Guard, its sarriT' 
ors, 1, 83. 

Washington City, its lack of infliMnoo 
in the country, 2, 277 ; importsnoe 
of protecting it from capture by the 
rebels, 6, 110. 

Wasting time, 3, 25G. 

Water, Uncle Zeb's opinions on, 1, 2S, 
27 ; seen between snow-drifts, 3. 

Water-coolers, wet 1m« compsied to. 
1, 181. 

Water-fall, at Tivoli, attempt st a de- 
scription of, 1, 128. 

Waterhouse, Dr. Benjamin, of Osm- 
bridge, reminiscences of, 1, 94 ; his 
claim to having introduced vscdna- 
tion, 96. 

Water-ice, sentiment compsied to, 2« 

Watering-place, modem art compsied 

Water - power, genius of President 
Kirkland compared to, 1, 88. 

Waterton's alligator, 1, 138. 

Waterville, Maine, described, 1, 6; its 
college, 6. 

Watts, Dr., 4, 355 ; on the sgveemflnc 
of birds, 3, 205. 

Wax figures, 4, 74. 

Wayland the Smith, trsditioos of, 
transferred to the DevU, 2, 848. 

Wealth, its value in the develmamsnt 
of ci«rilization, 6, 26 ; its offloe in 
society, 36. See also. Riches. 

Weather, as a topic of conversstton, 

1, 20 ; the Chief Mate's indifference 
to, 115 ; advantages to be obtained 
by the regulated obsenrstioii of, 9, 
197; iU-temper laid to, 6, 13; the 
old woman's remark on, toSonthsy, 

Weather prophecies by sntmsls, 9, 

Weathercocks, the pleasures of wstoh- 

ing, 3, 197. 
Webster, Daniel, compared with Fox, 

2, 275 ; seen in company with ftes. 
Tyler, 5, 296. 

Webster, John, writer on witchonft, 


ctorj of 1 mermiui blthop, 1, 

VebsUr, jQho dramatln, bit g 
characterlEcd, 1, 277 ; COIDI 

aeepti™ of nab 
( poQtlo phru 

smsH, ChSIMUbriud'i dsKTlp* 
i,,,.u.. I ..uQ of, 3, 212. 

rrad ViDi&]tiilnn,aharBct«-otf herHlTflctlim 
hii I lor \va brother Frlfdrloh.'S, 113. 

ick al Wllkini, BL>liop, 1, IT7. 

1, 290 ; Will, oonfounded by Culylc with wit. 
281 ; fuliiHi, 2, D3 ; ttB piiKs Id lila 

In, 3, 

Eia /fr.'iV'i /-nin-Cmt bfirbeat pliy, 

280; alio, 273; 3, 22i. 
Wfigele on Duit* tu Part., *, 222 n. 
Wslmtr, B, 174. 
Walniar, Qraod Duke oT, 3, Iti^. 

Wordsworth,' 4, 373 n, 
WeUIi prlds of uioeUri. 3, 19. 
Werner, 3, CC . 
Wcrwolvei, ocliHa of the bellBf In, i 

3G0 ithe avideuce ol the eilaleuc 

WeiJei^ hia rerorm ot (he church > 

WeU IiidiM. Cromwell'a pluia 

rag^rU to, 3. 33, 
WsBtmlnltsr Abbey, 6, G9- 
Whalea, 1, 101, 102. 
Whig., Wordiworth on, 4, 367. 
Whipping. See Flogging. 
WhlppoorwUI, 3, 21 g. 

3, 196, IS 

I. Nalm 

or BliaWpeare. 223. 

Wlerua, on wltchorsft, 2, II 

Fauit legsnd, 3M ; ref uUa 

Wild, Jonathan, 


n, 3, 1G». 
Impuilalilyof hi 

• character, 3, 23 ) 
hli lelten to Eng- 

thadscUaeot Puritan aiute^ty.Tz' 
nlK, 44. 

" er, 1, 13. 

WUliDn, rorEcytbe, The (XdSergeanl, 

B, 24T n. 
WIlKjn, BiUy, H, 126. 
Wluckeliiuum onltaly, 1, ISO. 

healthful emplaym'ent, 3, lOTj Ita 

Wine, Aleatlco, 1, 174; effect on an 
Italian guide at Olevuto, I7fi, 

Wlaslilp^Ur., hie d"m"beul, l/sTa. 

pinion, of the poati, 261 ; Iti gloom 
1 cloudy iiorttiern cUnial«L 287 i 
'-oyroet the flrat to reeogolH Ita 


•, 27S;theIi».ooat«d 

. 'JK^". inNewXnglaod, 

dian, a, 68. 
ITIntbrop, Got. John, the elder, ei 

Bcter. 23 ; ataady coungf' of rhtu 
■«r, 2B; nfu, SdSi 3,148. 



\, Jr., Pilars idTloc 
■o, a, 30; Edward Hara'i «»> 
■pondcDoe vHli, od ftJcbemj imd 
BVltlctaii,46 ) Jomtl^ui BmitaT'ii 
fiORVipoDdflDn with, cm alchaDj, 
SI ; Wr KcMbn IKgbr 

11,4, MO. 

"ni quoted, 21] n,£lGD, 

WifflK-, Dr., 1, IS!. 
Wit, of Dryden ud PopB computid, 
S, 114 ; !hi»'i line on, critldHd, 


WITCHCKATT, 3, 313-398 1 niodcra n- 
peritLtloD coiDpontd wftb uiclvnt, 
317 ; liPBKliimti«i the giwX mylholo- 
giur, 31Sj origin of ft the 
aupnutunJ, 3S0; luirlval of the 
heathen Rodi In Chriatlui lupiTEti- 
tjom, 3Zl ; belief In tba po»eT ot 
fiitu, SZT I the Idei of ■ compKt 
with him deTeloped undBr Chris- 
tlsoity, 329: the urlleit leiend of 

ttut, 33Z; Inauence et feudal bUb- 

uyualita In, S'.., — . 

dom the rerene of the DItIhb, 
Engltah kGt igihut wltohuntt, 
witches' gutheringB md •■--'-' 
ner* thm^h tha air ■ 

pqda, 357 ; deRoneratlo 
Into legead and Buper«t 

ft, 352; 


jblnaoe of wltchoe with the 

famlUuB, 362, 374 ; utorlei ot tl 
Devire appearing on varioUH occ 
■ii>nB,3m; irroilDdlDl the belief 
witchcraft, 369) 

ibilOBOphy and science 

pg* not alMohita tnith. 

ST2; oaoHot the cmeltTdliplned, 
374; thft belief Id witcbcnft flour- 
lihee In eaily New England, 10. 
376; ijiteniallo hooting out of 
wltcheain Bngtand, 378 ; character 

378 ; the danser of 

the flirt doahtera, , 

effect of Wleiu'i work, 382 ; IUw|. 
nald Seot'a wo^ 384; the hidliif 
cmtlnaea in aptto of nptlGian. 385 ; 
the Bamn wftcbcraft, 388-3S6 (bh 
partlculaTa under Salem); caaea of 
deeepUoD eipoeed, 391, 393, 3M; 
the leaaon to be drawn, ^C; ■ 
higbei mode of belief the but eior- 
clger of inpfiietltliiii, 39fi ; oIk, S, 

ivedal caaea deecribsd, Tbeophlhia 
(6th nDt.1, 3, 329 : Bylieiter IL, 
331 ; Qnndler at Loudon (1634), 
332, 36t;, 3n; Tbouiaa Browne 
(1644), 332 n ; Kar«chal de LueD- 
bourg (1e9<i), 333; Abrl de la Bue 
(ISSi), 334, 363 ; Elli, Btylea (1664). 

Blihop^340 : Ch^etian' Oreeo, 340^ 
Janet Douplaa (1677), Ml ; Jnllsa 
Coi, 34] ; Hra. Campbell, 34S ; Mra. 
Barton, 342; wltehM of Mohia, 
Sweden (1670), 342; Arawa ffimp- 
Bon, 332, 378 ; Chria. Ikwig. 36S ; 
cuea nnder HiHiUui, 364 ; a girl In 
It.17, 366 n ; nuniot Loudim fl6»l), 
371 ; Jeanne HarriDier, 3S0; Gull- 
laume de Lore (1453), 381 ; caa« In 
TouicUb and Beaunli (iGlO-lE), 
386; caaH In Borduui (1718) and 
Scotland (1722), 387; a rfrl near 
(1692), 388^ ; Anne Putnam, 8M ; 
glilB in LltttBtoD (1720), 391 ; araad- 
mg parwn, 39S; Miurtha BiMder 
{iMi, 393; caaa fn BtlghUbH, Sna- 
■ei (1659), 394. 

autbon cited on the nl^scti Aid- 
ato,3, 383; Aubrey, 354; St. Ana- 
tlD, 360; Baiter, 377,383; Bektor, 
m-. Bodin. 314, 335, 338, 347, 353, 
360, 361, 375, 379,380, 381, 3(8,380, 
393 ; BIr Thoniaa Browne, 397 \ Cha«* 
Mr.aei; Defoe, 323; »rK.IHgbT, 
387;QaiiDet,387;aiaata U4^%«, 
354, 377 ; Orlmm, ^7, 348, 3E6, 368 n ; 
Homer, 360 ; Ia Brnytra, 381 : !«• 
clan. 322, 357, 360 : Loiratiua, 322 n i 
Luther, 363, 367; Matbra, 316) 
Kaurr. 316. 347, 387 ; Helanothon, 
366; Hontidgne,387; BennHon, 
338, 317, 364, 377 ; Perrand, 316 ; Pe- 
ter of Abano. 381 ; Ghigp. Fencsraa, 
362; Pliny the lonnger, 323; Ja- 
cobui BaTaglua. 383; BcboDlcraH, 
362; Sent, 313, 383; Sinclair, 816) 
Trltbemloi, 366 ; Tiirell, 391 ; Tylor, 
320 ; UphaiD, 313, 388 ; Walburger, 



S15, 352, 354, 355, 379 ; John Web- 
ster, 314 ; Wierus, 313, 349, 354 d, 
381, 382. 

Witches, use of salves and powders, 
2, 336, 338, 339, 350, 352 ; their jour- 
neys through th? air, 336, 339, 341, 
343, 350, 356 ; their gatherings, 337, 
338, 340t 312, 345, 347, 349, 352 ; 
their contracts described, 338, 341, 
344, 381 ; their familiars, 339, aiO, 
ai6, 348, 364; their prayers, 341, 
342; their carrying off children, 
343 ; their baptism, 344, 318, 352 ; 
their manner of milking, 345 ; their 
opening graves, 352 ; their night 
journeys, opinions of various au- 
thors on, 353, 357 ; use of broom- 
sticks, and the like, 356 ; their pow- 
ers according to popular belief, 369 ; 
the charge oof sexual uncleanness 
with devils, 374 ; the wholesale de- 
struction of, 374; tested by bein^ 
thrown into tlie water, 379 ; Scot's 
charitable judgment of, 384. 

Witches' Sabbath compared to the ex- 
cavations in the Roman Forum, 1, 

Withdrawal from society, how far it 
should be carried, 1, 373. 

Wither, George, his works reprinted 
in the " Library of Old Authors," 1, 
252 ; faults of the editor, 258 ; in- 
accuracy of the editor's quotations, 
260 ; Farr on the character of his 
language, 261 ; in Pope's Dunciady 
4, 49 ; his influence seen in Milton's 
early poems, 75. 

Witte, Karl, on the date of the Vita 
Nuova^ 4, 149 ; on Dante's De Mo- 
nmrchin^ 150, 181 n ; on the date of 
the Div. Com.f 157; on Dante's 
amours, 190 n. 

Wittenberg, 3, 72. 

Woden, 2, 358, 365 ; horse sacred to, 

Woe, Rousseau's father's fondness for, 
2, 248. 

Wolfenbiittel, Lessing librarian at, 2, 

Wolfram von Eschenbach, 4, 159 ; his 
Parzival, 231. 

Wolsey, Cardinal, founder of Christ 
Church, 6, 168. 

Woman, her friendship a safeguard, 
her homage fatal, 2, 247 ; Dryden 
and Swift on her influence in reflning 
language, 3, 131 ; in the ProvenQtl 
poetry and in Dante, 303 ; Pope's low 
ideal of, 4, 46 ; Chapman's descrip- 
tion of a virtuous wife, 47 ; Jeremy 
Taylor's description of an ideal, 47 ; 
Steele's compliment to his wife, 49 ; 
Spenser's lines to the Rosalind who 
had rejected him, 52; the Divina 
Commedia an apotheosis of woman, 
150. See also^ Italian women. 

Woman taken in adultery, Petrarch 

imagined at, 2, 255. 
Woman's last love, Webster's lines on, 

1, 282. 
Wonder, the faculty of, not extinct, 

Wonders, told by the eldor navigators, 
1, 110; diminish with every recent 
traveller. 111. 
Wongen, night spent in one, 1, 36. 
Wood, Fernando, 5, 156. 
Woodmen, absence of extravagance of 
expression, 1, 32 ; fineness of char- 
acter attained by, 38 ; hospitality of, 
38 ; their satisfactions, 3, 681. See 
alsOy Loggers ; Lumbermen. 
Woods in winter, Shakespeare on. 4^ 

Worcester's Geography, 1, 112. 
Words and phrases : — 

again-bite, 3, 13. 

again-rising, 3, 12. 

ambassadors, 3, 131 n. 

ancient, 1, 286. 

arra, 1, 177. 

astire, 1, 327. 

ave, 1, 285. 

battalions, 3, 131 n. 

bays, 1, 308. 

bead = offer, 1, 342. 

bearth, 4, 93. 

bid, 1, 297. 

birch = canoe, 1, 24. 

blasphemous, 4, 110. 

bonny, 3, 344 n. 

borrow = pledge, 1, 342. 

bravo, 3, 239. 

buxom, 3, 13. 

can, in oil English, 1, 330. 

canny, 2, 114. 

chaise debased into shay, 2, 274b 

chapelain, 3, 344 n. 

circumvallation, ?, 131 n. 

citizen, as a title, 1, 135. 

columbine, 3, 329 ii. 

coniepleasants, or St. Elmo*B fires, 1. 

commandement, 3, 344 n. 

communication, 3, 131 n. 

corps, 4, 91. 

creatures, 2, 70. 

death a sense, exclamation, 1, 274. 

descant, 1, 285. 

dense, 2, 347. 

dichtnng, its comprehensive meaningj, 
6, 117. 

driving the river, 1, 34. 

elves, 4, 129. 

'em for thewt 3, 132 n. 

evicke = chamois, 1, 298. 

excellency, 1, 135. 

fearful, New England pronunciatian 
of, 2, 70. 

feuter rr lance-rest, 1, 327. 

flunkies, 7 , 177. 

flute = tail glass, 1, 310. 



tot to, 3, 1»» n. 

fry =: burn, 1, 312. 

fuliiiine<l, 3, I*')* 

gaUowra*i«, 1, 13). 

geiitiH*!, 4, 13. 

gobliiiB, 4, I'JU. 

graiuary =- enrhantmenti 2, 331. 

griiuoire. 3, 332. 

linir, 1. 3r.». 

lii'ad, etyninlngy of, 3, 14 n. 

hean«f>, 4, 1(>4 u. 

lM«!e, 1, 3:i-.'. 

hpl]> — wrvaiitflf 2, 43 ; 6, 206. 

hcrrii's. 4, $•<>. 

hiKlit)i,4, Vrl. 

home, 4, 1^1 u. 

hoiiinout - liorhmuth, 3, 14 n. 

iiiroiiip, 1, IHNt 

iiiltabitaiit. 1, 1:97. 

iiiwit, 3, I'J. 

lt«, 4, HrJ. 

jiiiiil>iiig-4iffr place. 3, 146. 

kindly, 6, UK. 

knave, 3, 1-1 n. 

laid out, 2, r>7. 

l«lo = i>eopl«*, 1, 341. 

lengthy, 3, :^30. 

lorilhhip, 1, \'M. 

hu'eni, Iroui leitrrne^ 1, 800. 

inagni-tif-ni, 3, iS'n 

make it nice z— pl.iy thp fool, 1, 344. 

mariner and Miilur, 3, 13. 

mob, 3, l<n n. 

iuiuina<>bia, 1, 13G. 

navvio, 3, 14 u. 

neat, 1, .')()5. 

nirp, connected with Fr. niaU^ 1, 


coif-e, 4, 91. 
old Harry, 2, 347. 
old Nick, 2, 348. 
old Scrat<>]i, 2, 347. 
operationH, 3, 131 n. 
08yll = blackbird, 1, 32C. 
out of judginentH, 1, 297. 
out-ray, from ovltn'er^ 1, 299. 
pallisadocs, 3, 131 u. 
parlo, 4. 104 u. 
poncb, 1, 285. 

point-device, Hozlitt on, 1, 339. 
preliminarioH, 3, 131 n. 
prime, 1, 337. 
profT = i)roof, 1, 344. 
pult, 4, 91. 
qunrrelR, 1. 309. 
quick, 3, 14 n. 
rave, 1, 310. 
rerrcnnt, 4, 104 n. 
reliable, 1, 351. 
Bcoif away, X.'s Btory of the Dutch 

ca])taiu, 1, 119. 
Bentre, 1, 327. 
Serape'o i, 1, 136. 
serenate, 4, 104 n. 
servant, ufte of the word in early New 

England, 2, 44. 

■hay, 4, 91 n. 

Bicker = sure, 1, 343. 

■ofew, 3f 130n. 

•O-BO, 1,311. 

Bpeculationn, 3, 131 n ; ^ 20L 

Bpirit, 4, 109. 

Bplitff, 1, 37. 

Bterve, 1, 301. . 

atrnok, 4, 93 n. 

surety, 3, 344 n. 

thing, defined, 1, 48b 

*t U, 3. 132 n. 

treen orocbea = wooden tlrfta, X, 


troop-meal. 1, 300. 
ure, from en ariirre, 1, 300. 
vote-kllliog mandrake, 1, 274. 
Touteafe, 4, 93. 
way^ooBe, Hazlitt^s blunder in re> 

gard to, 1, 347. 
weltachmerz, 6, 118. 
M i<-kc«I, 3, 14 n. 
wild, 1, 322. 

wilfully = wlBhfuUy, 1, 800. 
wi^ 1, 285. 

without ^ imleBB, 1. 340. 
wrotherlieyle, 1, 332. 
wynke =: sliut, 1, 343. 
words hi 'Mke and -tide^ 4, 90. 
words in «A, in Milton, 4, 96. 
Wordsworth, Dorothy, inflaenoe on 

her brother, 4, 3('4 ; her brother** 

regard for her, 374 n ; her Joumaif 

3<i7 n. 
Wordsworth, John, death at aea, ^ 

W0ED8WOETH, WiLLUW, 4^ 864-415 ; tlw 
war of tlie critics over his claima as 
a ]>oet, 354 ; the Wordsworthiana a 
sect, 3^4 ; tbe elements of a aoond 
judgment, 366; the IJmitationa of 
his experience, 356,413; considered 
himftelf a "dedicated spirit.** 366 ; 
his birth and family, 367 ; chUdbood 
and early education, 368 ; effect of 
the sin-.ple life of Hawkahead on 
his ohanu-ter, 369, 366 ; bis earUeat 
poems, SCO; 3, 96; bia fatber'a 
death, 4, 361 ; life at college, 861, 
3r3; his readhig, 361, 363 ; hda char- 
acter as a child, 362 ; relations with 
his sister, 3C4, 374 n ; bis Tidt to 
France, 3CA ; its effect on bis devel- 
opment, 3(T> ; his politics, 8G6, 867, 
373 ; hirt faith hi man and bis de^ 
tiny, 366 ; a defender of the Church 
eRtablicbment, 367 ; his first con- 
sciousnepR cf the variety of nature, 
34:8 ; early influenced by Ooldsmlth, 
Cow]>er, and Bumv, 3<%> ; his sen^ 
of melody dull, 369, 409 n ; a certain 
blunt realism, 370; his ienatttre 
purity, 371 n : his power in descrip- 
tive poetry, 372 ; bis pover^, 374; 
hiR doubts on choosing a profef ■I'm, 
375 n; life in Donetahire, 876} 



fiiendshlp with Coleridge, 376, 380, 

408 u ; removes to Allfoxden, 377 ; 
his confidence in himself, 379, 382, 
385, 388, 403 ; his stay in Qermany, 
379 ; influenced bnt slightly by Ger- 
man literature, 380; life at Gras- 
mere, 381, 38G, 389 ; his theory of 
poetry as announced in the preface 
to Lyrical Ballodx, 381 ; modified 
in later editions, 383 ; his choice of 
subjects, 384 ; his over-minute de- 
tail, 385, 400, 401; his common- 
places, 386, 400; friendship with 
Lamb, 386 ; marriage, 386 ; journey 
in Scotland, 386; friendship with 
Sir Geo. Beaumonf , 387 ; grief at his 
brother^s death, 387 ; pillaged and 
scoffed at by the reviewers, 388 ; his 
children, 390 ; appointed Distributor 
of Stamps, 391 ; later life and publi- 
cations, 392 ; the honors of his old 
age, 393 ; his life compared to that 
of an oak, 394 ; personal character- 
istics, 394 ; a partisan in his theo- 
ries of poetry, 395 ; his theories in- 
terfere with the appreciation of his 
later poetry, 396 ; instances of arti- 
ficiality in the later poems, 396 n ; 
his determination to produce an 
epic, 397 ; his quality as a oritie of 
poetry, 398 ; the splendors to be 
found in the midst of prosiness, 400 ; 
his deficienci(^s, 401 ; his particular 
excellence, 401 ; fond of the sonnet, 
402 ; his appropriate instrument ttie 
pastoral reed, 402 ; a certain dul- 
ness of perception, 403; incapable 
of sustamed inspiration, 404, 408; 
the high quality of his best verses, 
405, 407 ; lack of form and propor- 
tion, 406, 410 ; slight conception of 
other character than his own, 406, 
413 ; the double personality in his 
poems, 408 ; his long-windedness, 

409 ; defects of his narrative poetry, 
410; his value to the world, 41 i ; 
the grounds of his immortality, 414. 

WoRDSwouTH : address 10 May, 1884, 
6, 90-114 ; earlier essays upon, 100 ; 
the Wordsworth Society's edition of 
his works, 101 ; the light shed upon 
the development and character of 
his mind, 101 ; upon his political 
opinions, 102; his views of socioty 
and the means of its regeneration 
change, 103 ; his attitude toward re- 
ligion, 103, and the church, 106; 
his poems retain their freshness, 
107 ; the variety and rare quality 
of the minds that he appeals to, 
108 ; yet he remains insular, 108 ; 
his greatness lies in single passages, 
not in suKtained power, 109 ; his 
quality and method as a teacher, 
110; treatment of nature in his 
poems, 111 ; his lack of discrimixia- 

t!on, 111 ; his use of the sonnet, 
112; local in choice of subject and 
tone of thought, 112; the perma- 
nent qualities in his work, 112 ; his 
abiding charm for innocent and 
quiet minds, 114; his calm treat- 
ment of criticis'ji, 1, 232 ; his dic- 
tion, 245 ; 3, 7 ; his impatience when 
any one spoke of mountains, 1, 371 ; 

3, 257 ; his estimate of the value of 
public favor, 2, 78 ; his work com- 
pared to a heap of gold-bearing 
quartz, 78 ; Carlyle a continuator of 
his moral teaching. 119; his influ- 
ence traced on J. G. Percival, 145 ; 
his genius, 148 ; his wholesome fel- 
lowship with Nature, 266 ; 3, 261 ; 
his lines on old age applied to Quln- 
cy, 2, 308 ; wanting in constructive 
imagination, 3, 35 ; his reform of 
poetry compared with Wesley's re- 
form of the church, 97 ; the modi- 
fication of his early opinions, 98 ; 
translation of Virgil, 98; Landor's 
remark to, on mingling prose with 
poetry, 144 ; view of religion, 187 n ; 
his descriptions of nature, 271 ; his 
debt to Gray, 4, 4 n ; ready to find 
merit in obscurity, 5 n ; his relation 
to Pope, 27 ; his prefaces, 54 n ; the 
beginnings of his poems, 102 ; Spen- 
ser's influence upon, 352 ; also^ 1, 
364,377; 2, 105, 120, 155; 3,262, 
269, 287, 335, 337 ; 4, 276; 6, 163. 

compared with Keats in character 
and • manner of working, 1, 231 ; 
with Keats and Byron, 242; with 
Slielley, 2, 145 ; with Milton as to 
style, 4, 86 ; with Wellington, 375 n ; 
with Cowper, 399; with Goethe, 
413; with Dryden, 6, 113. 

on winter. 3, 271 ; on midnight 
storms, 273; on the sounds of the 
freezing lake, 289; on Whigs and 
Chartists. 4, 367 ; on the infinite 
variety of nature, 368 ; on the owl, 
372; on the province of a great 
poet, 379 ; on the destiny of his 
poems, 388 n ; on biography of lit- 
erary men, 392 ; on his own defi- 
ciencies as a critic, 399 ; on poetry 
as nn art, 406 ; on books, 6, 80. 

on Burke, 3, 104 ; 4, 366 ; on Chat- 
terton, 4 n ; on Daniel, 280 n ; on 
Spenser's Foeiy Queen, 351 ; on 
Sylvester's Du Bnrfns, 351 ; on 
Goethe's Wilhehn Meiitter, 380 ; on 
Sf^ott, 399 n ; on Coleridge's An.' 
n'evt Mariner, 404 n ; on a line of 
Shakespeare's. 409 n. 

Haydon on his lofty purpose, 1, 225 ; 
Sir Geo. Beaumont on his politics, 

4, 3(i7 ; Coleridge on, 373 n ; Fox 
on, 381 ; Byron on. 388 ; Lamb on, 
390 ; Southey on, 390 n ; De Quincey 
on, 394 ; Leigh Hunt on his eyes. 



3M ; MIm Martinnin on hiH cmm' 
Mition, 4W II ; CruM' Kt.>lliIl^ull mi, 
4(N) 11 : Laiulor ou, 4(il ; Ellis Yar- 
nall on, AH'. 
Jilintl 1/iii/ilnmf Itnjf qiioteil, 4, 384 ; 
Thf Jionirirrf, 3T*'i ; r«*j«*«'teU k>rtlie 
•tage, 377 ; ( 'huntctrr a/ a Utijijiy 
Warrior^ 3, 1*8 n: iJerciijitiie 
Sketches, publ. in 1793, 4, »8; 
rluiracter, 370 ; < lifli^gpv in ri'vibiini, 
871 ; Evclesiattieal Sonvrtt^ the 
ocenn swell ccnipared to, 1, 101 ; 
Ecltjtfe of the Stin quoted. 4, SMi ; 
Fpit^tle to Sir <i. L'eavmotit, 3, 
9» n : Jueuimj Walk. publ. in 1713, 
4, 3(!8 ; clioniVter, o70 ; chaiiKcn in 
Tpviaion, 371 ; Kreunion, VA>2, 4(:0, 
402, 4('C, 411, 414; quoted, 31Xi n; 
its lieavinohii, 31W ; Helen o/ Kir- 
conuel r< iii]'areil with the original 
ballad, 4t3 n; Jiliot Hoy quoted, 
StX) n : Jtiiliiin Itinrrtmt quoted, 
SOtJ n ; l.tniUntiia^ 4(»(»; Jitter to a 
Friniil of Hitrtm, 3lKi ; Liiieg vrit- 
trn at 1 lutein Allry, 3, 378 n, 3^0; 
I.yiiiol JiaUads^ the plan piiggef>ted, 
37(i : publitihed in 171)8, 377 ; nottrea 
in the roviewa, 378 n ; its imiwpii- 
Inrity, 378; the lid vol. publinhed, 
881 : tho prefnre to the 2d ed., 381 ; 
reprinted in Philndelpliin, 381 n ; 
N*'moirs hy Her. Dr. Wora^uorfh^ 
3fi!8 n ; (hfe to JJuty, 6, IOC ; Otle 
on IrtimorlolHv, 1, 128 ; 4, 4 n ; 
Pftfr Jirll, 31)2, 410, 411 ; The J'hi- 
h hthriipht j)ropo8e<l, but not et-tab- 
lithetl, 374 ; Prelvde, 171, 4C0 ; 
qnrted. 3CG n, 3(:0, 399, 40G n ; Si- 
vir.n quoted. 385; Thanlsgir- 
inq Ode quoted, 390 n ; The Thom^ 
3ni; The Wagoner, 410; The White 
Doe, 411. 

Wordeworth Sooiety, the president's 
duty, 6, 100 ; the society's edition of 
the poet's works, 101 ; usefulness of 
the society, 10(>. 

Work, apotlieosis of, in New England 
history, 2, 3. 

World compared to a niednl stamped 
with Joy and Care, 1, 9& 

Worship, roirplftmcM of , io all Iti 

elt ntcuta in the Roman Churcb. 1. 

Wortiey Montagu, Lady Kaiy. 8m 

Wottou, BIr Henry, on Sidney, 3. 

1^9 iL 
Wren, Sir Chriitcpher, and HIchMl 

Angelo, 1, 199. 
Wright, Tliouias, Haxlitt*8 oeiMuea 

of, 1, 328 ; editor of Chaucer, 8. 

Wrong, antiquity givea it no datm, 5y 

Wyatt, 3,139 n; 4,274. 
Wyeherley, Pope'a correapondenee 
with, 4,31. 

Yancey, W. L., hia thieata of 

t^ion, 6, 41, 42. 
Yankee. See alto, American; New 

Yankee Humor, displayed in the Com- 

wallls, 1, 77 ; nsuallv checked by the 

presence ot Public Opinion, 77. 
Yniikees, popularity of Kmuaon, 1, 


Yaniall, EUia, on Wordaworth, 4. 

Yeast, 4, 72. 

Yj^drasil, tlie tree, 1, 361. 
1 orkshire Irngedy, 2, 177. 
Young, Dr. Alexai^er, hia aeilea of 

old Englisli proee-writera, 1, 247. 
Young. Edward, a grandioae image in 

his Last Day auggeated by Bxyden, 

3, 126 n. 
Young ladies* lettera, 3, 8SI. 
Youth, conductors for the naftoral 

electricity of, 1,88; Tranda Balea 

always young, 98; Hr. Emeraon*a 

perennial youth, S6c ; aito^ 3, 210 ; 


Zeb, Uncle. See Uncle Zeb, 

Zisea 2 7. 

Zodiac, \>ot. P.*8 raeeeaalon ot hats 

compared to, 1, 94. 
Zurich, its eight hundred antlMn la 

18th cent, 2, 21S.